Wilderness of Mirrors
by Scarlett Burns
Summary: Sands must confront madness headon, and rediscover himself in the process, if he wishes to reclaim his life. But how does a blind man survive in a wilderness of mirrors? Sequel to Sands Through The Hourglass.
1. Encounters

**Wilderness of Mirrors  
**_Sequel to Sands Through The Hourglass  
_By Scarlett Burns  
Rated: M for adult language, violence and mild horror. 

Disclaimer: Don't own it, folks!

Summary: Sands must confront madness head-on, and rediscover himself in the process, if he wishes to reclaim his life. But how does a blind man survive in a wilderness of mirrors?

Thanks: Huge thanks to my beta, Stella-Maria. Lots of love and thanks to everyone who read and/or reviewed STTHG!

Author's Notes: This is a sequel to Sands Through The Hourglass (STTHG). This story will not make any sense if you haven't read STTHG first. If you have read STTHG, then you know the drill! English translations, spook speak and slang definitions can be found at the end of each chapter. Feedback is savored like good slow-roasted pork. Enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter 1 - Encounters**

It's fascinating, how quickly a crowd disperses after a show. It was a perfect example of the oddities that existed in the human psyche. It took far longer for a theatre to fill, than it did for a theatre to empty.

Now, you'd think it would be the opposite; that pre-show excitement would cause a rush, and after the show, you'd want to take a moment to reflect and digest the entertainment.

This was not the case; an illustration of how the mind often did the unexpected, and even the illogical. This was one of the many difficulties he'd run into with the PANDORA project.

The sound of people hurrying past made him chuckle. It was practically a race to see who could get out of the theatre first, and the only prize available to the winner was getting stuck in D.C. traffic.

Waiting for the herd to exit, he was mildly surprised when someone moved against the stampede, and sat down in the empty seat to his left.

Their silence made it impossible for him to tell who it was. Regardless of the fact, he turned toward the mystery guest and flashed one of his trademark smirks. "Fancy meeting you here," he drawled, figuring his guest was probably someone he knew.

"Ever the people watcher, aren't you?"

Sands inhaled sharply; the sound of her voice startling him. It shouldn't have. After all, he'd heard it a lot lately, just not in person.

He hadn't expected the mystery person to be her.

She'd known him so well… and not at all. But he couldn't say that he really knew her either. Oh, he knew what made her tick all right, but he didn't know _her_.

"Can't unlock the door if you don't have the key," he said smoothly, covering his surprise. "Or another nifty tool of the trade. Speaking of keys, where did you find yours, Cecelia?"

If he'd kept tabs on her he'd have known that she'd been released from the sanitarium, but truth be told, he hadn't expected her to recover... especially after hearing the tape Martin had acquired.

"It was only a matter of time," she said, and her tone had an edge he'd never heard in her voice before. "You didn't plan on me recovering, did you?"

Sands heaved a tired sigh as he turned away from her, absentmindedly adjusting his sunglasses as he did so.

_Could have prevented this... _"I plan for everything, and everything includes _everything_," he answered offhandedly.

"It doesn't matter," Cecelia continued. It didn't sound like she was listening to him. "It's only a matter of time."

He turned to face her again. "Threatening me so soon?"

"I'm sure you're used to it by now," she purred dangerously, closer to him than she was before. "It's only a matter of time."

Quirking an eyebrow, he said, "I'll bite. Before what?"

He heard her chuckle softly as she shifted in her seat, then felt warm breath tickle his ear. "Before you join me," Cecelia whispered.

Caught off guard, he pulled away from her, quickly getting to his feet. He didn't understand what she meant by that. No. He didn't **want** to understand what she meant by that. There was a rustling noise, as if she was opening up a bag, then something was thrust into his hands.

A box. He ran his thumb experimentally along one of its edges; it felt as if it was made of wood, and it seemed to be ornately carved.

"Something to remember me by," she said, and the words made his skin crawl. Those innocent words turned terrifying by one special delivery. "I know how you love to open up Pandora's Box."

His grip tightened around the box. The world began to spin. The ground fell out from under his feet. The box disappeared. He was no longer standing.

_Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore._

It took him a good minute to comprehend where he was.

Bed. He was in bed.

He'd gone to bed after…

Sands bolted upright as the real world hit him with the force of a Mack truck. The answering machine beside his bed beeped obnoxiously as he fought an oncoming head-rush with a few deep breaths.

_Yet another lovely dream to add to your collection. _

He supposed that dreaming of Cecelia was better than dreaming about the Day of the Dead, but it was little consolation. Cecelia's scorn wasn't even the worst of the dream; the most disturbing thing was that he was starting to dream like a blind man.

Selfish? You bet! But it made him wonder… was his memory of sight already slipping away?

Thoroughly depressed, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, and with a single digit pressed the play button on the answering machine. He could care less about the waiting message… he just wanted the fucking thing to stop beeping.

"Mr. Sheldon Sands? This is Dr. Alex Beck, from the Windhill Sanitarium. You need to contact me right away…"

Sands cursed under his breath, dragging himself out of bed. How's that for premonition?

Fucktabulous; another shit-storm was brewing on the horizon and he hadn't even cleaned up the damage from the last one.

He checked his _special _watch; nine-thirty. He'd slept for, at the very least, fifteen hours straight, and hadn't even bothered to change out of what he was wearing yesterday.

_You're really off-off-Broadway._

This day was already off to a bad start, and he hadn't even left his bedroom yet. Snatching up his sunglasses, he put them on and raked a hand through his bedraggled hair.

No sooner had he washed and changed than the doorbell rang. As much as he didn't want to deal with anyone right now, he was almost thankful; it meant he could put off dealing with what was in the sink for a little longer. Just… a little longer.

_I wonder when I became such a fucking yellow-bellied coward._

Slowly making his way down the hall, and still retaining his orientation, he called out, "And what do we have behind door number one?"

He wasn't in the mood for surprises, and wanted a heads-up on who was waiting for him.

The response was delayed a beat. "Metro police."

Sands' hand froze on the knob. Police?

_What the Beelzebub are the fuzz doing here?_

Even if he had committed a crime – and he hadn't committed one in the States for quite some time – the Company would be more likely to handle him personally.

_This could be a trick… _

Not answering the door immediately, Sands opened the coat closet beside him and grabbed his 9mm subcompact pistol. As he tucked it into his pants, out of sight, he immediately felt more at ease.

A cop is always fun to play with.

Sands pulled open the door, the smile on his face so fake that it must have looked like it had been surgically applied.

"Are you Sheldon Sands?" a man asked, and Sands inwardly cringed at the way the officer had accented the 'e' in his first name.

"On a bad day,' Sands answered.

"Can I come in? I'd like to talk to you. Probably won't take long."

"All by yourself? Not sure that's a groovy notion. Don't you want some backup?"

"Do I need it?" the officer asked, unsure whether or not the man he was talking to was being sarcastic.

Yup, the officer had a hint of country southern in his accent. Probably West Virginia, or some hillbilly hole like that.

Sands smirked but made no move to let the man in. "Do theaters need a show to sell tickets?" He folded his arms across his chest, leaning against the doorframe. "Mind giving me the skinny on what's going down?"

"There's a warrant out for the arrest of Miss Ava Hunter."

Sands' eyebrows rose at the mention of Ava; he'd half expected this to be about Cecelia after the call from her shrink.

Funny; the police finally showed up at his door and it had nothing to do with him. He stepped aside, ushering the officer in with a free hand.

"So," Sands began after the officer entered, closing the door. "Has she done something _naughty_?"

"You might say that," the officer said, stopping in the living room as Sands joined him. "I'm Officer Weldon, by the way."

"What's this have to do with me, Kojak?" Sands asked, getting straight to the point. He had the feeling that Weldon was waiting to shake hands, but wasn't about to guess wrong and show his Achilles' heel.

There was a short pause, then, "You know her?"

"You wouldn't be here if I didn't," Sands said matter-of-factly, plopping down on his couch.

"Have you seen her around lately?"

Sands chuckled and propped his feet up on the table in front of him. He wasn't about to make it easy for Weldon; in fact he was about to do the opposite. Really, it was just too much fun. "Can't say that I've ever _seen_ Ava. Sorry, I hate to disappoint."

"You want me to swallow that you know her, but haven't met her?" Weldon asked outright. Well, he wasn't one to beat about the bush.

"I'm no jive turkey, Barney. I haven't _seen_ the dame; but there's a big difference between seeing and meeting."

"Then you've met Ava?"

"Bingo. You're as sharp as a sack of wet mice, but believe it or not that's a compliment to anyone working for the fuzz."

If Weldon was getting irritated, he kept it under control for the time being. However, he did snort at the remark. "How d'you meet her?" he asked, attempting to stay on topic.

"How do you know that I did?" Sands asked, fishing in his pocket for a half-empty carton of cigarettes. "We didn't exactly advertise in the local paper, Barney. For all you know, we're just pen pals or email buddies."

"We're with the Feds on this one. They didn't go about tellin' us much, just that you might be able to tell us somethin'."

"Well, the Feds giving you squat _is_ better than zip, but it still leaves you with just squat, you dig?" he asked, lighting up. He was being easier on the guy than he'd originally intended, but it was beneficial to get your information before you burned the bridge out from under someone.

Barney's arrival was something completely unforeseen, and the more he knew about it the better off he'd be.

"Not really, Mr. Sands."

"They give you the 411 on me?" he asked. "Because, Barney, my Cousins just shoved you into a hornet's nest. I admit that I sting. Hope you're not allergic."

"Uh… not much. Being's the only thing they told us was that you worked a job with her."

Poor hillbilly was having a hard time keeping up. "I'm just trying to figure out why the Feds are reeling Metro into national security issues."

"Like I said, there's a warrant out for her arrest…"

Fishy, very fishy. Week old fishy. The Feds should be handling him themselves; it was unheard of for the Feds to send the fuzz in their place. "What exactly has Ava done to get the Feds and the Po-lice chasing her cute little tail?"

"I thought you'd never seen her, Mr. Sands."

Sands smiled slyly, taking another drag. "Clever, but you're still only as sharp as a bag of marbles. You've got your synapses hot-wired for the hunt though. I'll give you that much." He exhaled cigarette smoke slowly. "But, Barney-Boy, you're still barking up the wrong tree." Leaning forward, he tapped ash into the ashtray. He was thankful this was taking place in his apartment; he knew where everything was.

"So, you were workin' for her?" he asked, and he didn't sound cheerful about it. Probably because it made Sands a suspect as well.

Sands laughed outright at that, not answering right away. The thought that he was working for her was pretty damn amusing.

Standing, he walked over to the living room window and slid it open to let out the smoke. Latching the top to keep the window open, he turned back to the local fuzz, taking another puff of his fag.

"Three strikes and you'll be out, Barney."

"Can you explain how I'm wrong, then?" Weldon asked, making his way around the room.

"Simple. You reflect that far-out little assumption of yours in a gilded mirror and you'll see reality." He wanted to appear as if he were cooperating; as if he didn't suspect a damn thing.

_Weldon will likely get sloppy if he thinks I'm easy._

"Simple," Weldon deadpanned, clearly getting fed up with the doubletalk.

"Simple. Wrap it around your noggin. I'm sure it'll come to you."

"Always hated those riddles on tests," Weldon muttered, almost to himself.

Snickering, Sands took one last drag, his cigarette cashed. "Sure you don't need to radio for backup?"

"Hold up – you sayin' she was workin' for _you_?"

_Ah, putting two and two together._

"Oh, I'm proud of you, Barney. Truly," Sands said, not without a heavy dose of sarcasm. "But don't let those horses loose from the stable; I didn't know who I was getting until I got her." _Come to think of it, even then I didn't know what I'd gotten._

"Who do you work for?" Weldon asked suddenly, and the thought that this might be a trick once again popped into Sands' mind. Was it conceivable that a cop would know to come to him for questions, but _not_ know who he really was? He didn't think that even the fuzz was that inept.

He couldn't see a badge, even if the cop showed it to him, and he also couldn't see if the cop just happened to slip a bug under his couch cushions either. Hell, the guy didn't even have to be wearing a uniform to pass as a 5-O.

He really hated that it would be so easy. So easy for them to pretend to be whoever they needed to be, without even investing in a costume. So easy to slip a bug without him ever noticing.

Worse of all, there was nothing he could do about it.

_Zip. Zero. Zilch. I can only hear so much, feel so much… there are some things only sight can give me, and that cow really has gone out to pasture._

Fuck, he didn't know if he should be annoyed, mad, depressed or a combination of all three.

Sands didn't let his suspicions – or dismal thoughts – show. "You're really not up to speed, are you?" he asked, then 'looked' down at his watch. "Wowza! It only took you fifteen minutes to ask me that itty-bitty detail."

"Couldn't find your employer in your file."

"That's a shocker." Sands flicked his spent cigarette out the window. He didn't believe Barney for a moment. If the FBI really was in on this they would have told the fuzz who he worked for. But if the officer wanted to play him… well, it would be rude if he didn't play back. "Cousins In Action, Kojak." When he was met with silence, he clarified, "CIA. Heard of it?"

Another long pause. "Have you heard from Ava Hunter?"

"Ah, now you're getting it. Haven't really stayed in touch since we beat cheeks out of Mexico a week ago." Sands smiled shrewdly, and in a way that would inspire anything but trust. "But I'll be sure to give you a jingle if she decides to catch up on old times. Groovy?"

"What do you do for the CIA?"

"Sorry. Can't shoot the breeze about work. If I did, I'd have to shoot more than the breeze."

"This is serious business. She's wanted for money laundering and suspicion of treason."

"Why does that sound so familiar?" Sands drawled, striking a thoughtful pose to accentuate the sarcasm. Something big was going down in the Company. He really wished that he knew what it was.

"Treason, Mr. Sands. These days it ain't taken lightly."

"Was it ever, Barney?" Sands was outwardly indifferent, but inwardly he'd been unprepared for the accusations against Ava. She didn't seem to be the traitorous type, but then again her assistance to him in Mexico could have been enough for the Company to turn on her. He didn't think the Company was aware of the two of them being in cahoots, but it was impossible to know for sure.

The whole situation was a fucking wilderness of mirrors; he suspected no one knew what the hell was going on, but everyone had a little piece of the jigsaw puzzle.

Sure, he lived for a challenging puzzle – it was what his job was all about – but hot damn, if this wasn't the most fucked up government situation he'd ever heard of in the history of fucked up situations… and _that_ was saying something.

"This is serious," Weldon reiterated, starting to sound a little like a broken record.

"What? You mean they actually take all these spy games _seriously_? I would never have thought it!"

"This isn't anything to laugh about!" Infuriated, Weldon began to approach Sands.

Sands had his hands clasped in front of him as he listened to Weldon drew near. His senses were on high alert, but he had the feeling that Weldon wasn't going to get violent. If he was a phony, he was a covert and subtle one.

His voice was ice as he responded to Weldon's rebuke. "I'm not laughing, _Mr._ Weldon. However, _you _are laughable. If I were in a better mood I'd express that salient point more thoroughly."

"You're walkin' on thin ice, pal."

_Pal? Oh, it's on now._

"It's the only place I'm comfortable, Chief."

The officer kept a little distance between them, and muttered under his breath, "No wonder…"

It was so quiet, Sands could barely make it out… but there it was.

No wonder. 

That phrase could be taken a number of different ways. It could have been a direct response to his comment, but no, he didn't think so. Not the way Weldon had uttered it.

No wonder…  
_  
No wonder… you were set up for the fall._

_No wonder… the CIA wants your hide._

_No wonder… they humiliated you._

_No wonder… you're disfigured… and blind._

It was enough to give him a headache; a piercing stab of pain behind the right eye socket. He resisted the urge to massage his forehead, and continued on as if he hadn't heard Weldon's whispered words.

"But you're forgetting one tiny detail; if I'm walking on thin ice, then so are you." He gestured towards Weldon before continuing. "Because you're _right next to me_, and there ain't no land for miles"

"You wouldn't be the one responsible for all this, would you now?" Weldon asked suspiciously.

Sands kept his face absolutely neutral. "Can I call a time out? Groovy. What are you accusing me of? I'm not unaccustomed to being blamed for odd goings on, but it's always nice to know what I've been up to. Apparently I'm out of the loop."

"Are you?" Weldon scoffed. "Is that possible for a man like you? What were you in on? Selling secrets? Or just the money laundering?"

Now he knew this guy was a fraud, or at the very least, a turncoat in the fuzz. How else would Weldon know what kind of man he was? How far up and down the totem pole did this conspiracy go?

"Damn, I think I **might** have left five dollars in the pocket of one of my pants when I sent it to the cleaners yesterday," Sands quipped, moving past Weldon and returning to the couch before going on. "The answer to your question would be a negative, Little Buddy."

"And I'm sure you'd go about tellin' me if it were true," Weldon said, following him to the couch, but opting not to sit down and get warm and cozy.

"You know," Sands began, focusing his attention on Weldon's movements. "I probably would."

The sound of Weldon's rude snort made him smirk.

"Why don't we cool it, Kojak? No need for you to out-psych the un-out-psychable. We're on the same side of the fence, aren't we?" he asked, finishing off the sentence in his best 'shrink' tone of voice; he hadn't used it in some time.

Well, no time like the present to brush up. Might come in handy for PANDORA.

"Are we?" Weldon asked skeptically, but the tone was more civil than before.

After hearing Weldon's under-the-breath comment, he was convinced that Barney wasn't what he seemed. He'd have to get the apartment swept for bugs later, 'cause who knew what kind of infestation he might have after the so-called-fuzz left. Come to think of it, he might have had one long before.

_My brain really must be on an extended vacation._ It was all he could do not to smack himself in the head right then and there.

Sands settled back into the couch, folding his hands in his lap. "Miss Hunter ran intel for me; period. Convenient job for a traitor to have, isn't it? Now I can't help but wonder if the information ever made it to the appropriate agency."

"Well, I guess I have to take what you give me," Weldon said, and he didn't sound too happy about it. "Mind if I take a look around?"

"Of course I mind. I didn't clean for company." Sands smirked and stood again, with every intention of showing the cop out.

Weldon completely disregarded his remark, his footsteps retreating down the hall.

_Well at least he didn't go straight into the kitchen._

Sands' smirk immediately faded. Weldon had just crossed a very thin line. No one just helped themselves to his apartment.

Weldon had nerve… well, that nerve could easily be severed.

Dropping to his knees, he reached under his couch and gripped a favorite piece of hardware hidden underneath. The subcompact was a nifty surprise, but the 10mm Colt Delta Elite was much more impressive.

Tucking it in the back of his pants, he followed after Weldon, and found him in his bedroom. No doubt he was probably planting another bug; the man was just too brazen for his own safety.

"Messages, Mr. Sands?" Weldon asked when he heard Sands approach.

Sands leaned casually in the doorframe as Weldon hit the play button. He could only hope that Weldon had never heard Ava's voice. The first message that played was from Cam.

"I thought only the CIA played things off the cuff. Chalk one up for the Company; they're only keeping up with the times after all," Sands drawled. Of course, he was referring to the fact that Weldon didn't seem to have a warrant to search his apartment.

It didn't really matter. He'd be an idiot to keep incriminating evidence in such an easy to find place as his apartment.

As Ava's message came on, Weldon immediately asked, "Who's this?"

"My darling sister-in-law, Linda," Sands answered smoothly, not missing a beat.

"Seems a bit worried for a sister-in-law. What'd she say at the end?"

"Not overeducated? The pearl of wisdom she left for me was, 'I care for the future'." Sands nodded at the message machine as Doctor Beck's message played. "That would be the reason for Linda's worry - her sister - but then dear Linda always was a worrywart in the worst way."

When the tape stopped, Weldon continued his snooping. "Well, what do we have here?"

Sands only quirked an eyebrow in response, since he wasn't sure what Weldon had found. He moved his right hand so that it rested on his hip.

"Government issue?" he asked, and Sands now knew what he'd found. The gun he had between the mattress and the box spring.

"Naturally."

"Impressive," Weldon said, and it sounded as if he was returning it to its hiding place.

To do that, Weldon had to have his back to him. Sands took the opportunity to bring the Delta out into clear view. "Isn't it?" Sands asked conversationally. "But I kinda dig this one more."

Weldon went extremely still when he caught sight of the pistol. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Absit invidia, Barney, but you better bug out," Sands said dangerously, sure the look on Weldon's face was priceless. Weldon was a flea's jump away from receiving a serious lesson.

"Bug out?"

"Bug out. Scram. High tail it. Scat. Get the fuck out before I shoot you."

"You have to be kidding," Weldon said in that odd half laugh, half disbelieving tone that you hear when people are scared shitless.

"I've had a hell of a week Barney, and you've done little to jolly me into good spirits." He had the gun pointed towards the ceiling, but pulled back the hammer just for fun.

He had no intention of shooting the rat; this wasn't Mexico, and he wasn't stupid. There was enough bad shit raining down as it was.

But enough was fucking enough. Weldon had to leave before he really did lose control of his infamously itchy trigger finger.

"Sweet piece, isn't it? It's worth over eight hundred dollars." Sands pretended to shift his attention from Weldon to the gun. He knew he was playing a dangerous game, especially if Weldon was prepared to use his own hardware. But this was a calculated risk. He was willing to bet that Weldon wasn't going to use his weapon.

Sands was needed alive. If he was dead, it would be hard to set him up for the current shit going down in the Company. Wasn't he the lucky one? "It's a classic. I'd never exchange a classic for something new and shiny, because this baby's been tested in the field – it's been used, misused, and abused – but it's always performed."

Sands shifted his focus back to Weldon, making it crystal clear that this wasn't about the gun; the gun was only his point of illustration.

Weldon was deathly silent, and that made Sands smile. Lowering the weapon, he stepped out into the hall and motioned for Weldon to get the fuck out.

Waiting, Sands heard Weldon let out the breath he'd been holding and move into the doorway. As he passed and went down the hall, Sands followed.

He couldn't help but needle the man a little more. "Maybe next time we'll get in a little target practice; you'd be amazed by this classic's accuracy."

"I'll… call you if I need anything else."

"If you dare," Sands drawled.

Weldon opened the door, and was out of the apartment before Sands could say 'adieu'. Shutting the door, he couldn't suppress a chuckle.

Making his way back to the couch, he relieved himself of his pistol and put it back in its designated spot.

He had to admit, he'd never expected a turn of events quite like this.

It was time for him to start fitting all the little jigsaw pieces together.

* * *

Translations

Absit invidia – No offence intended.

Spook Speak

Wilderness of Mirrors - a spy operation so complicated that it is no longer possible to separate truth and untruth.

Cousins – Slang for the FBI. Also slang for the CIA, depending on which agency you work for.


	2. Uncertain Alliance

**Chapter 2 – Uncertain Alliance**

Eric Cameron sat opposite his long-time boss, Marc Jacobs, in a small café near Langley. The day had barely begun, and Marc wanted to talk to him over coffee.

In his early fifties, Marc was a tired-looking man with a lean frame and hawkish features. Although his look was severe, he wasn't hard to get along with. Eric would say that he considered the man a friend, but today he had a really bad feeling.

Sure, Marc had been affable enough so far, but it wasn't normal for them to be sitting in a café at ten am on a workday. Cam was worried; the boss didn't take you out for a cup of Joe without an ulterior motive or bad news... not in this business.

He could tell Marc was edgy by the way he kept fidgeting with his coffee cup. He'd pick it up as if to sip, and then set it back down without drinking.

Finally, Eric broke the uncomfortable silence that had settled between them. "Why am I here, Marc?"

Marc set down his cup and met Eric's gaze. He got straight to the point. "You're being suspended."

That was Marc. Say what needs to be said with the least amount of words possible.

Eric sat nonplussed for a moment. Was he shocked? Yes. Was he surprised? Not really. He hadn't been a prime example of a model officer lately. "Can I ask why?" he said, finding his voice.

"Do you need to?" Marc queried, picking up his cup again, and taking a large gulp from it.

"Mexico?" Eric guessed, taking a large swig of his own coffee. It wasn't helping; in fact, it was doing just the opposite.

"Mexico."

* * *

_I don't want to go to Mexico no more, more, more._

_There's a big fat policeman at my door, door, door._

_He grabbed me by the collar, and made me pay a dollar…_

Sands laughed wildly, shutting the freezer with a clammy hand. Leaning against the refrigerator, he tried to recall where he'd first heard the odd nursery rhyme.

_I don't want to go to Mexico no more, more, more._

Hell, he couldn't remember, but it was fitting, and the absurdity had kept him distracted from what he'd just done. He didn't think the self-induced delirium was going to work for long.

_Damn, I need some tequila._

The phone began to ring, rousing him from his daze. He walked over to the phone in the living room, as if in slow motion, and picked it up on the fourth ring. No cute sayings this time around; his greeting was curt. "Yeah?"

"Sheldon Sands?"

It only took a moment for Sands to recognize the voice; it was currently on his answering machine. "Only when I have to be," Sands answered. Two Sheldon's before noon was two too many as far as he was concerned. It was also an unwelcome reminder of a particular person he needed to get in contact with as soon as possible. "What's your malfunction, Dr. Beck?"

"Malfunction?"

"You gave me a jingle so you must have a mucho problemo," Sands prodded. His light tone was entirely forced. It was not an accident that he'd managed to avoid the _mucho problemo_ that was Cecelia for the past few years.

"Ah, that's right," the shrink said, as if recognizing Sands solely by his fondness for sixties slang and catch phrases. "Yes, it's about your wife, Cecelia Sands."

Sands would have rolled his eyes if it were possible. Who else would this be about? "I appreciate your reading the prologue, but why don't you skip the first few pages and jump straight to the plot, Doctor?"

"All right. As of yesterday morning Cecelia is no longer under my care. She'll be transferred on Monday to another facility."

Sands' grip tightened on the phone, and he struggled to keep his voice calm. "I don't recall signing off for this new road trip of hers…"

"Don't you?"

_Oh, this could be bad._

"Evil doppelgangers are a bitch," Sands said after a moment, a thousand scenarios racing through his mind; all equally disturbing. "Is this something that can be straightened out with our two tin cans and a string?"

"Not unless you want her transferred, Mr. Sands."

Sands held back a sigh. _Damn it._ The last place he wanted to be was in the same building as Cecelia. Unfortunately, this reeked of the CIA's involvement, and if he wanted to solve the entire puzzle, he was going to have to use every last piece. "Well, isn't that just peachy? I'll be there before you can say 'hopscotch'. Oh, and I wouldn't go buying her plane ticket yet 'cause there just might be an explosion."

"I can't prolong Cecelia's transfer any longer than Monday. I had to fight for that."

"What made you call, if that paper says I signed her off to never-never land?" Sands asked, mostly out of curiosity. For the life of him he couldn't figure out just _what_ his fellow spooks were up to.

"He signed the appropriate papers with a desk nurse. I walked in just as he was leaving. I may have only met you once five years ago, but I knew he wasn't you. The signature seems to match, but the face sure doesn't. That's why we need to see each other in person."

Sands couldn't help but think that seeing each other in person was going to be a little one-sided, but opted not to offer that particular piece of information to Dr. Beck.

"Then it shall be so," Sands said smoothly, and didn't even bother to say goodbye before hanging up.

* * *

"Are you in or are you out?"

"You're not serious?" Cam asked incredulously. He took a large gulp of his now cold coffee, attempting to swallow the lump that'd lodged itself firmly in his throat.

Marc sighed, standing as he did so. He motioned for Cam to do the same. "I know you don't like it. It's the only offer I can give you."

Coming to his feet, Cam followed Marc, who was already heading for the door. Cam couldn't believe what choice he'd been given; career suicide or… _no._ He couldn't even consider the other choice. It wasn't right. It wasn't fair. It wasn't _him_.

He'd never be able to do it. He couldn't betray a fellow officer; he didn't have it in him. It was everything that was wrong with the Company; everything that Sands had warned him against.

Grabbing hold of Marc's arm, he turned his boss around to face him. "I… I _can't_ do this."

Marc's eyes held something that could – for a brief moment – be construed as understanding. Then, it was gone. "You better start searching the classifieds."

* * *

It's fascinating, how slowly a crowd gathers for a show. It rarely took more than ten minutes to clear a theatre – not counting the after-event schmoozing and drinking in the Golden Circle lounge – when it could take nearly an hour for it to fill. Perhaps that could be attributed to the pre-event schmoozing in the lobby.

He'd gotten to his seat quickly. An usher had guided him to the appropriate row with minimal embarrassment, and he knew the main lobby well enough to navigate from past visits to the theatre. The usher had provided him with a little device for the sight impaired – wasn't he lucky? – before dissolving back into the noise of the crowd.

Settling back into his chair, he folded up his cane and tucked it away, listening to the hum of excitement surrounding him. He never thought he'd feel out of sync with the active crowd, but he did.

The anger he'd felt only a week before had left him. He would have killed to get it back, because after the anger all he was left with was an encroaching numbness that truly frightened him. Now, he was tired, and felt far older than his thirty-nine years.

The last thing he wanted to do was think about it, but now he had little choice.

_You don't know how to live this way. _

_Blind._

There was no denying that he was fucked. The system had used him in ways he'd swore he'd never be used, screwed him over more times than he could count, and taken him for one hell of a roller coaster ride that he was still waiting to get off.

The irony of it all? He'd actually thought he'd been screwing the mother of all pooches. He'd actually thought _he_ was using the Company, and was above being used himself.

But, goddamn it, he'd show them all what a tough son-of-a-bitch he was. He'd make it, because he _had_ to. There was no other option.

A couple squeezing past him muttering hurried pardons brought him out of his thoughts.

The theatre wasn't his idea. Ava had FedEx'd a ticket over earlier in the day with a short note in Braille, written, like the ticket, as a girlfriend's surprise to her boyfriend. Clever, he had to admit, but it drove home how tenuous Ava's situation must be.

After the fuzz's early morning visit, he was thankful that Ava hadn't phoned. He'd been unable to get a hold of Cam earlier in the day, so the apartment still had to be swept for bugs.

Sands had flirted with the idea of standing Ava up; she was a wild card in this little game. He couldn't trust her… _wouldn't_ trust her. Still, she'd helped him both here and in Mexico, and because of that he was willing to hear what she had to say… and who knows? Maybe she could shed some light on the strange goings-on within the Company.

It really all came down to one simple fact; he couldn't ignore her. Ava was another part of the puzzle, and his gut told him that she was an important piece.

He was currently sitting in Orchestra seating, five rows back from the stage, in an aisle seat offset slightly to the right. Courtesy of Ava, he'd managed to bogart a prime viewing seat that was totally wasted on him. He couldn't help but notice the irony, and he was damn sure that it wasn't missed by the other nearby theatre attendees either.

The seat to his left was still empty. It was Ava's, no doubt.

Although he could no longer see his surroundings, he knew them well. The chair he sat in was red, as were the surrounding chairs, the carpet, the opening curtain, and the walls. How'd he know? _Experience_. Of course, he'd been here before.

What he hadn't noticed before was the scent in the air; it was a combination of musty velvet fabric, competing perfumes and musk.

He'd even dressed up for this "date" with Ava. If there was one thing he'd relearned in Mexico, it was that there were times to stand out, and times to blend in. Here in DC, with twice as many eyes, it was often better to blend in.

"Amantes suntamentes," Ava said, sliding into the seat on his left. The Latin sounded very foreign on her tongue, and he quirked an eyebrow as he faced her.

"You memorize any other nifty phrases for me, Sugar?" he asked.

"Just one more, but I'm saving it for after the show," she said with a half-hearted laugh. Leaning closer, she gave him a quick peck on the cheek, and then whispered in his ear, "We might have company."

Sands smirked, moving in closer as he touched Ava's face. Brushing his hand across her cheek he asked in hushed tones, "_The_ Company or just company?"

"Pick one," she whispered back, before pulling away and relaxing into her seat.

"Talk about the family from hell," he muttered, listening as she settled herself in. He could hear the sound of pages turning, and guessed that she was flipping through the playbill.

Smirking, he sat back in his seat, waiting for the show to start. Of course, neither of them had any intention of paying attention to the show. "I hope you don't expect me to whisper sweet nothings into your ear."

She took a moment before answering, probably watching him fumble with the sight-impaired audio device as she thought. "I'm hoping they won't be nothings," she answered after he'd successfully untangled the earpiece.

Sands ignored her statement as he plugged in the earpiece, more for the benefit of anyone watching than any actual intent to use the damn thing. "What spectacular spectacle of spectacular-ness did you drag me here to see this time, Sugar-cube?"

Ava cleared her throat, and Sands heard her stifling laughter behind it. Before she could answer, the same usher who'd taken him to his seat interrupted.

"Excuse me, Sir?" Sands turned towards the usher who continued speaking. "I forgot to give you a playbill."

Taking the playbill, Sands immediately felt the Braille on the cover. He couldn't help but be a little surprised; he'd no idea that they made playbills in Braille.

"Madama Butterfly," Ava said, sounding as if she was having a hard time keeping a straight face, although it seemed as if it was brought on by nerves more than anything.

"For the sake of my sanity, and your possible date with a bullet, you'd better be tickling the ol' funny bone," he drawled, letting his hand do the reading as he referred to the playbill.

_Macbeth._

He was only slightly relieved, wondering if she'd deliberately set up their little tête-à-tête during the infamously cursed play out of some morbid sense of humor, or if she'd simply purchased tickets for whatever wasn't sold out.

A voice came over the loud speaker, asking everyone to take their seats. It was only a couple of minutes later that the crowd quieted, the lights probably dimmed, and the show began.

When the opening act was underway Ava leaned in casually, and he did the same. He wondered if Ava knew that the fuzz had shown up on his doorstep looking for her.

"You went to a lot of trouble, Sugar," Sands whispered once the show was underway.

"I have important information you need to hear," she answered, keeping her voice equally quiet.

"I'm all ears."

"That was the point, wasn't it?" she asked, and he heard a note of hesitation in her tone.

Sands' eyebrows rose. "You tell me."

"I don't know all of what's going on in the Company…"

"That makes two of us."

"I'll tell you what I know. The Company knew about Martin before the Day of the Dead," Ava began. "They had people stationed down in Mexico watching him, but they didn't stop him from doing what he did to you." She stopped, and he suspected that she was studying his reaction.

Sands kept his face neutral, but sat back slightly in his chair. He'd guessed as much, from what he'd pieced together, but hadn't known for sure. "And?"

"Now they need you."

Sands couldn't help the bitter smile that graced his lips just then. "I assume you're going to do more than point out the obvious?"

"They've opened the box."

Nodding ever so slightly, Sands turned his attention back to the stage.

"What's your role in this drama?" he asked quietly, switching off the sight-impaired audio device in his hand.

"I'd have thought you'd know by now."

"Hmm," Sands pondered, a small smirk playing on his lips. "Should I designate a classic archetype then? One befitting of your talents?"

"I wouldn't expect anything less."

Sands could hear the smile behind her words. Their pointless banter wasn't as inane as it seemed; it served a valuable purpose for anyone who might be eavesdropping. "You're a fine shape-shifter, Sugar; a natural _Mystique_."

"Funny, I thought that was you."

A brief pause in their chit-chat allowed for part of _Macbeth_ to fill in the silence. He was eager to hear what Ava had to say about the maze they both found themselves in now, but knew better than anyone that patience was indeed a virtue in the game of spy versus spy. So instead of rushing her to an explanation, he turned his attention to the stage.

"…_with terrible numbers, assisted by that most disloyal traitor,  
the thane of Cawdor, began a dismal conflict;  
Till that Bellona's bridegroom, lapp'd in proof, confronted him with self-comparisons, point against point rebellious, arm 'gainst arm.  
Curbing his lavish spirit: and, to conclude, the victory fell on us."_

"But maybe you're something more important," Ava whispered, and Sands bet she hadn't tuned into the play as he had; instead using the moment to try and figure him out.

"Well don't blab, Sugar. I want it to be a surprise."

She chuckled softly. "Oh, I think it will be."

* * *

Latin Translation

Amantes suntamentes – Lovers are lunatics.


	3. Catch My Eye

**Chapter 3 – Catch My Eye**

The Washington National Opera's version of _Macbeth _seemed to be quite good. The singers' voices projected well and their performances were more than adequate, as far as Sands could tell. It was impossible for him to judge much else about the production, and he couldn't help feeling a little bitter. There was no point in going to live theatre if he could get as much out of the experience by checking out an audio tape from the library.

He'd never seen _Macbeth_ in the theatre before, and even now that he could say he'd seen it, he hadn't _seen_ it. Who'd have thought that one day Sheldon Jeffery Sands would be spurned by simple semantics?

Belatedly he realized that Ava had started whispering to him again, and leaned in closer as she continued speaking.

"… all this ruckus made over one little box." Her tone was one of disbelief, and it dawned on him that Ava must not know much about PANDORA. But then, who did? He'd been involved in PANDORA's creation, and right now it looked as if he knew diddly-squat about the project.

"A box?" Sands questioned. "A box is like a theatre. It's an empty shell that's nothing without something inside it."

"You started it all, didn't you?" Ava asked. He didn't think he was imagining the uneasiness that had crept into her normally calm voice.

"I dig your theory. Like it better than the truth."

Ava grabbed hold of his lower arm and squeezed, as if to get his complete attention… apparently she didn't realize that she'd already firmly secured it. "What is the truth?" she asked; her voice almost impossible to hear.

"Whatever I make it," he stated, leaving it at that. Telling her about the PANDORA project would serve no other purpose than to keep her awake at night, and waste the valuable time they had. Besides, his curiosity – oh yes, he saw the irony – about what Ava _did_ know about PANDORA was getting the better of him.

"Where was the box opened?" he asked, curious to know the answer.

Ava shifted in her seat. "You mean to say that you didn't open it?" she asked. Her tone suggested that she already knew the answer.

Sands quirked an eyebrow in Ava's direction and propped his elbow up on the armrest between them. "I only stole a quick peek inside."

"What did you see?"

His answer was instantaneous. "A solid idea, poorly executed." He turned towards her as his lips bent into a crooked smile. He shot the question right back at her. "When you thieved a glance inside, what did you see?"

When she didn't respond immediately, his mind formed an image of Ava sitting beside him with her mouth slightly agape. After a lengthy pause he heard a slow intake of breath.

"What makes you think I've seen inside?" she asked, and she really did sound curious as to how he'd come to that conclusion. It shouldn't have been a surprise to her. After all, it was what he was good at.

Sands' index finger rested on his chin, leisurely moving back and forth. His smile turned predatory at the subtle admission he heard in her voice; it was hidden in the faintly breathless quality of her '_Why_' and _'I've'_. It was barely audible, but it was there nonetheless. "And bingo was his name-o!"

Before Ava had a chance to answer, a shrill alarm pierced through the theatre's atmosphere like an arrow flying towards its target. The play stopped in mid-act; first the actors, then the orchestra. A few seconds of stupefied silence followed, and the only noticeable sound was the fire alarm's shrill wail. Sands leaned into Ava, and casually said, "Our Company has arrived, _Dear_."

As if on cue, everyone began to respond in synchronicity. The sound of people standing, shuffling feet, and disappointed groans engulfed the opera house as the entertainment was unceremoniously interrupted. He turned towards Ava, shrugged, and stood with the rest of the crowd. Being in the aisle seat meant he either skedaddled, or got trampled over. Besides, if this impromptu intermission was courtesy of the Company, it was better to leave with the crowd and be hard to find, than be separated from them and easily singled out.

Reaching inside his coat, he began to take his collapsible cane out of the inside pocket. Ava stopped him with a touch of her hand on his. "Don't attract attention," she whispered, gently pushing him forward into the aisle.

He returned his cane to his inner pocket, but the feeling of helplessness that engulfed him immediately afterwards was not a welcome sensation. He knew she was right; a blind man with a cane was much easier to spot than a blind man without one, but it still left the little matter of not stumbling on every other step, which would also be a dead giveaway.

He really did hate this.

Ava took hold of his arm and led the way to the exit. With Ava's help and the sound of footsteps in front of him, he managed to make it up the flight of stairs with only a couple of minor missteps.

It was, he guessed, around the opera house doors that led to the lobby that he lost Ava. He tripped-up on something – what he didn't know – only barely managing to catch himself before falling.

"Oh!"

That was Ava, whose hand was no longer tucked in the crook of his arm.

Standing up straight and making sure his sunglasses were still secure, Sands waited for Ava to take up his arm again… only, she didn't.

Sands opened his mouth to call her name, only to be bumped from behind. He lurched forward a little from the contact, and felt the warmth of the afternoon sun filtering through the large glass doors of the South Grand Foyer. He turned, a biting retort on the tip of his tongue, when he became aware of the faint smell of smoke in the air.

Frowning, Sands walked forward with the throng, taking the cane out of his pocket and extending it as he stepped up on the inclining ramp that marked the entrance of the Grand Foyer from the opera house. It brought the unwelcome attention that Ava had warned about, but at this point he had little choice. As he descended the opposite side of the ramp, he grabbed hold of the steel railing and listened for any sound of Ava.

Hearing none, he continued forward, and kept with the crowd as they filtered out of the Grand Foyer and onto the outdoor River Terrace. Since he was on the ground level, the terrace connected to the north and south plazas, where he guessed most of the patrons would gather until the fire department arrived.

Heading towards the edge of the terrace that looked out to the Potomac River, Sands positioned himself on the outskirts of the crowd that was moving towards one of the plazas.

When his cane touched the cement half wall, and the well-pruned shrubs that acted as a barrier between the terrace and the steep drop into the river, he stopped and waited.

He had a pretty good idea who he was waiting for.

Taking the easy way out was never his style. Neither was postponing an important tête-à-tête. Since Ava had hitched a ride to splitsville, he had no reason to avoid the Company. After all, he'd be walking straight into the lion's mouth soon enough, so this whole escapade had to have been a snare for Ava.

It was too bad he and Ava had been interrupted so early. Sands had a good deal of questions for the little spook. He had no doubt that the Company's timing was anything but accidental.

He honed in on the sounds behind him. The last stragglers were leaving the Kennedy Center now. He reached in his pocket for his pack of cigarettes, feeling the familiar urge. As he lit up, approaching footsteps told him that he wasn't going to have to worry about killing time. His Company had arrived.

Sands waited patiently for whoever it was to make the first overture, using the time to take a deep pull at his cigarette. The wonders of nicotine worked their magic, relaxing him almost instantly.

"Nasty habit, Sands."

Sands smirked, turning towards his ex-partner as he exhaled smoke through his nose. "But not my worst."

"How well I know that," Mike Gleason said. "Still terrorizing the rookies?"

"I consider it my duty," Sands replied easily, taking another drag. "When did you suddenly become a patron of the arts?"

"Since it became _my_ duty."

Sands cocked his head at Mike, but he was really listening to what was going on around them. By the sound of it, almost everyone had cleared the building. "Did you get your woman?" he asked Mike. He had no illusions as to who this was really about – he'd become nothing but a bit player – at least for today. He didn't think that would be the case for very long; he wasn't good at sharing the limelight.

Mike leisurely made his way towards the North Plaza. "Let this one be, Sands."

"I never could let sleeping dogs… sleep," Sands said, staying put. He wasn't about to follow Mike and lose their unspoken battle of resolve. "I hope you didn't do any real damage to the Kennedy Center. That'd be downright traitorous," Sands added with a suggestive quirk of an eyebrow, his voice rising slightly as Mike walked away.

"Of course not. It's not our turf."

Sands snorted, cigarette to his lips once more. Not bothering to respond, and knowing that he was going to have to wait Mike out, he took some time to listen to the sound of the Potomac rushing by and wonder what had become of Ava. He knew he wasn't going to get anything out of Mike about her. Not if the Company didn't want him to know. Mike was competent enough in interrogation techniques and psychology to keep his mouth shut about clandestine details, and wasn't going to drop some big revelation easily.

It was a cigarette and a half later when Mike sucked it up and came walking back. Sirens could be heard from the opposite side of the building, which meant the two of them were running out of time.

"Did you ever notice that the contents of a box are far more interesting before the box is opened?" Sands drawled, still facing the Potomac as he spoke to his approaching ex-partner. Mike was standing to his right, and the long suffering sigh he let loose told Sands he was put-out by even being here.

"You don't seem to learn. You start sticking your nose in the Company's private affairs, and they'll put you out on your ass, Jeff."

Exhaling a stream of smoke from his nose, Sands finally faced Mike. "Like they did in Mexico?"

"Not exactly. This time they'll finish what they started."

Sands took another puff of his smoke, before tossing his cashed cigarette into the river below. "And what was that?"

Mike stepped closer to the river barrier; probably looking south towards the Roosevelt Memorial Bridge. He didn't rush his response, and Sands had the feeling that Mike wasn't looking at him when he finally did answer. "Ruining you."

Sands' jaw clenched, but he forced his voice to remain cool. It was the response he'd been expecting after all… but anticipating the statement didn't make it any easier for him to hear it. "Oh, and I thought my special talents were going to get the Company out of their latest pickle."

He was well aware of the fact that he was going to have to play ball if he wanted to get anything out of the Company – and that included his next job. Despite all evidence to the contrary, he was fully capable of doing so if it meant getting what he wanted.

"It's one option of many. You know as well as I do that no one man is indispensable to the Company." Mike wasn't taunting or gloating. He was stating facts, plain and simple.

Still, Sands couldn't help but think, '_Especially a blind one, eh Mike?'_

"Semper idem," Sands said with a wave of his hand. "Are you _telling_ me to play nice, or else?"

"I can't tell you _anything_. Never could. Just pretend I'm talking to myself out loud."

"Nasty habit," Sands quipped, turning away from Mike and starting towards the South Plaza. "Who exactly was she working for?" he asked, referring to Ava. He'd meant under what sector; the answer he received was something entirely different.

"Not us."

Sands stopped in his tracks. "Counter-espionage?" he asked, but received no answer. Mike walked away, in the opposite direction, apparently having said all he wanted to say; perhaps even more than he should have…

As Sands walked back to the plaza, he dialed Cam's number on his cell phone. Again, receiving no answer, he rang off without leaving a message then punched in another number.

Not paying complete attention to how far he'd walked, Sands bumped into the barrier that marked the south end of the River Terrace, and stopped there as he waited for the man on the other end of the line to pick up.

"What is it?" the man answered after the fourth ring.

"You're always oozing charisma and charm, Tom," Sands replied smoothly, buttoning up his coat; the brisk December air significantly cooler near the waters of the Potomac.

"Aren't you dead yet?" Tom asked grumpily. Sands didn't buy the act. He knew Tom; the money paid to Tom for his special services warmed the man's sub-zero heart.

"It's only a matter of time, or so I'm told."

Tom never was one to shoot the breeze, and got straight to the point. "You got something for me or not?"

"How about a little game of twenty questions?"

"Oh, Jesus…" Yeah, Tom was well acquainted with how Sands asked even the simplest of questions and it only increased his agitation – much like anything else Sands said to him.

"Ah, that's right. You're a busy man, aren't you?" Sands said, turning slightly towards the sound of someone hurrying past him and down the terrace steps that led to the nearest plaza. "Then how about just one question? When you grabbed that shovel of yours and dug up Ava, what cemetery plot were you desecrating?"

There was a short pause on the other end as Tom interpreted his meaning. "Are you asking what agency? The Company, where else? She's an undercover operative; specialty is deep undercover intelligence gathering. She came highly recommended."

"How deep did you dig into _her_ cover?" Sands asked. He was itching for another cigarette, but the pack was getting a little light and he felt it might be wise to save a few for the upcoming crisis.

"Deep enough," Tom snapped, obviously not appreciating the implication that he'd missed an important piece of information on his end. "You know how I operate."

"I'm hip to your methods, but I suggest you put away the shovel and drill your way to the core, because you haven't discovered what lies beneath the mantle."

Terminating the call with the swift push of a button, Sands continued his way to the plaza, intent on pushing through the masses and heading towards the taxi stand. He realized about half way there that he should have battled his way through the north plaza instead; it would have been quicker.

Just as he was passing through the shuttle depot he became aware of _Somewhere Over The Rainbow_ emanating from his left pants pocket. He stopped, pulling out his cell phone and flipping it open.

"Are you the good witch, or the bad witch?" he asked in greeting. He expected it to be either Cam, or Ava.

"D.C. is beautiful, isn't it?"

"Last time I checked, yes." It was Ava. Much to his surprise, he felt slightly relieved.

"The promise of America is a simple promise: every person shall share in the blessings of this land," Ava said, and then added. "See you later."

With that, Ava hung up. Sands snapped his phone shut, furrowing his brow. Obviously she still needed to meet up with him, and the quote was a clue.

Unfortunately, although the quote seemed vaguely familiar, he couldn't place it. Her first question seemed to be a hint as well, but it wasn't enough to jump start his brain.

"Vae," Sands muttered. Slipping the cell back into his pocket he continued making his way to the taxi stand. He thought that she might be overestimating his knowledge of famous quotes. He was flattered, but that didn't change the fact that he couldn't recognize any quote thrown at him. Of course he could do a little research and find out who'd said it easy enough, but it would take too much time.

Arriving at the taxi stand about three minutes later, Sands waited in line for an opportunity to put his life in a D.C. cabbie's hands. He was still mulling over the quote Ava had tossed him. It reeked of some goody-two-shoes politician, but that was little help when D.C. was cram packed with buildings, bridges, memorials and parks named after famous political figures.

_The promise of America is a simple promise: every person shall share in the blessings of this land. _

He hadn't realized he'd spoken out loud until a lady about two people back in line responded.

"What?" Sands asked, turning to face her. It was worth a shot.

"Lady Bird."

Sands cocked his head questioningly, and then it dawned on him. "Johnson?" he asked for edification.

"Yeah – it's on a plaque in her memorial grove. What made you say that?"

Ignoring her question, Sands asked, "Where is it?"

"Right across the bridge. It's on the George Washington Memorial Parkway."

* * *

"Stick around," Sands told the taxi driver, as he felt the car pull up to the curb and stop.

An odd feeling struck him as he stepped out of the taxi and onto the cement sidewalk. It was that niggling feeling in the corner of his mind when he believed something wasn't kosher, but he couldn't back it up with anything solid.

_You need to know._

It was that thought that drove him on, into the memorial park and deeper into an increasingly tenuous situation. Unfolding his cane, Sands began his trek into the park, leaving the taxi behind him. He hoped the path would take him to the memorial marker, but having never been to the park before he could only guess.

The Lady Bird Johnson Memorial was quiet; so quiet he had yet to hear another person within earshot. His cane tapping the path in front of him was his only accompanying sound, and in his mind it grew louder with each tap.

Instinct kicking in, he directed his attention to the surrounding sounds, tuning out his own incessant tapping. He stopped.

Waiting a few seconds, he started to wonder if he should doubt his loose hold on reality. He'd thought he'd heard something, but it had been so faint he couldn't be entirely sure what he'd heard, or even if he'd really heard it.

Now he couldn't hear a damn thing. Shaking his head, Sands sighed and continued on.

Only a minute later he heard it again. This time, he could make it out. It was a sharp metallic sound, about thirty feet behind him.

Clink. Step.

Sands froze, certain that the sound was irritatingly familiar.

_It's not possible… is it?_

Clink. Step.

_It can't be him. It makes no sense. What would a mariachi be doing in DC?_

It wasn't logical. Sands inhaled deeply as a brisk breeze touched his face, and dry leaves rustled nearby. A prickle at the back of his neck told him that he was being watched.

_Take care of the sense, and the sounds will take care of themselves._

Sands forced aside his growing anxiety by snatching up his pack of cigarettes. He did his best to force his hand to stay steady as he lit up.

Indeed, if someone was up for a game of cat and mouse the elements of surprise and patience were called for.

After taking a couple of puffs of his cigarette, he continued walking down the path. He was doing his best not to tip the man off, and not entirely sure that he was successful.

Five minutes down the path brought him to a few descending steps. A little poking around with his cane and he discovered that he was in some sort of courtyard. The stone he stood on now was smoother – a finer quality – than the rougher stone path that he'd taken to get here, and the area was far wider than a path, sunken a few feet into the ground.

Sands' right hand fiddled with his cigarette nervously as he walked slowly about the courtyard; it was the only thing betraying his otherwise calm demeanor.

He hadn't heard the mystery clink for a few minutes now. Taking another drag, it occurred to him that one of these days it might be wise to listen to the little warning voice in his head; it was persistent in saying, _this isn't right._

But he was the first to admit that nothing had felt right since the Day of the Dead.

Distracting himself from his thoughts, he listened again for signs of life within close proximity. Still nothing but silence.

So he was downright shocked when his feet were swept out from under him. He fell to the stone hard. The wind was knocked out of him as he made contact with the ground.

Somewhere between his impact with the ground and trying to regain his senses someone snatched his cane from his grasp. Coughing, pain shot through his chest as heavy pressure was applied to his neck; the source was most likely his attacker's knee. The assailant was making sure Sands didn't get the chance to catch his breath.

Sands struggled for air, and for control, as someone's hands grasped his own and pinned them down.

Feeling lightheaded, weak, and unable to breath, Sands couldn't put up much of a fight. He was barely able to register what the man was saying.

"I'm afraid Ava won't be making it tonight. She caught my eye. I see she caught yours too," he said, sarcasm lacing his tone.

Sands didn't think he recognized the voice, but his fight for oxygen might have been hampering his ability to recall it. He struggled weakly against the man's grip, accomplishing nothing.

His attacker didn't let up, and continued speaking. "'Thou shalt not get caught' was never one of God's commandments, and no man can be saved by trying to keep it."

Then, mercifully, the pressure against his windpipe was gone. If the attacker had kept it up much longer, Sands would have passed out. He heard the man's footsteps walk calmly away as he fought to fill air in his lungs.

Over his own coughing, Sands barely heard the attacker tap a few times on the stone, about seven feet away and to his left.

Then, the mystery man left.

That was it. No threat. No torture. No date with death. Sands was completely thrown; at least he was after he'd regained his ability to breathe.

Sitting up slowly, Sands took a moment to regain his composure before moving to where he'd heard the tap. It was a familiar sound; one he'd been trying to tune out minutes before. He was hoping that the man had left him his cane, although he doubted someone who'd just attacked him would show that sort of consideration.

Unfortunately, it wasn't his cane that he found.

The first thing he came into contact with was the deathly still form of a human body.

* * *

Latin Translations:

Semper idem – Always the same thing.

Vae - Damn

Terminology:

G-Man – Short for Government Man, and slang for FBI Agent.

Counter-espionage – Spying directed against an enemy's intelligence collection organizations. Methods include surveillance, undercover agents, and monitoring the behavior of legally accredited 'diplomatic personnel' (some of whom are sometimes actually spies or spy handlers), and similar means.

Quotes:

_Take care of the sense, and the sounds will take care of themselves.  
_Alice in Wonderland, by Lewis Carroll


	4. Adeste Fideles

**Chapter 4 – ****Adeste Fideles**

Sands snatched his hand back quickly, as if the body might suddenly spring to life and bite him. Still shaky from his attacker's stranglehold, he lost his balance, falling back.

This could only be one of two people; Cam or Ava, and the scale was tipping in Ava's favor. He breathed deeply, and shifted his weight so that he rested on his knees.

He took another breath, trying to clear his spinning head enough to decide what to do. He never used to have this problem before. Deciding what to do; It had always been so clear… it wasn't anymore.

On one hand, he desperately wanted – and needed – to know who was lying in front of him. On the other hand, he couldn't afford being seen with a dead body in the park. If he was found kneeling beside the body, or any evidence pointed to him, it could be used by the Company as a smoking gun.

He needed to find his cane, or make sure that it wasn't here. He thought he heard the man drop it, so odds were that he'd left it somewhere near the body.

For now, he avoided the body as best he could while searching the ground for his cane. As his hands brushed along the flagstones he thought about the implications of this visit from his not-so-friendly friend.

Ava. She would be a great asset to him in his current situation, so if it was indeed her lying dead before him, it was much to his regret. Then again, the thought of Cam lying in front of him wasn't any more comforting.

Coming up empty handed in the search for his cane, he stood up slowly. Although still weak, he was feeling much better than he had a minute before.

Stepping around the body he continued the hunt. He realized then how close to the river he must be, because he could hear the water. A car honked off in the distance. He briefly wondered if it was the taxi driver getting fed up with waiting, but the sound seemed too far away. He hadn't walked all that far, had he?

He groaned, knowing that there was probably only one place a crazy bastard like that would leave the cane. How about right where Sands would want to leave the least amount of evidence possible?

Sands reached for the body, aiming for the stomach. He guessed a little high, but sure enough there it was, underneath a hand.

Taking hold of the cane with one of his hands, he examined the body's hand with the other.

Long, slender fingers. A ring on the pinky. Well-manicured fingernails.

It wasn't Cam. It was most definitely a woman, and it all added up to one lady; Ava.

Shifting his weight and using the cane to lean on, he slid his hand up from her fingers to her wrist. Squeezing, he felt for a pulse. He didn't expect to find one, and wasn't surprised when he didn't.

"Guess this was your swan song, Sugar."

His touch moved back to her pinky finger. Pulling a sleeve over his hand, he took off Ava's ring, knowing that D.C. forensics could lift a fingerprint off it, and rubbed it against his thigh. Once he was sure that he'd wiped off any fingerprints, he replaced the ring on her finger and got the hell out of Dodge.

* * *

"Can I help you?" asked the young woman at the front desk. She had an energy and enthusiasm that could only exist in someone who was completely new to desk duty.

"Yes. I'm here to see Cecelia Sands."

"OK," she said, looking down at a monitor that must have been a decade old and pecking at the keyboard as she looked up the patient. Her index finger tapped on the side of the keyboard as she waited. "Are you a relative?" she asked as Cecelia's information appeared on the screen.

"Yes. Sheldon Sands," he replied.

Her finger stopped tapping. A thin, dark eyebrow quirked as her eyes moved away from the monitor to the man standing in front of her. Their ages didn't fit. Cecelia Sands was thirty-five, and the man in front of her was sixty if he was a day. But then, it wasn't unheard of for a woman to marry someone twice her age, especially if he was rich.

"You have an appointment?" she asked, seeing that there wasn't anyone listed for Cecelia today.

"Oh, should I have made one?"

"We prefer it, but you came by during visiting hours so you should be fine. Identification, please?"

He opened his wallet, showing her his driver's license. Everything looked kosher, so she nodded, typed a quick note, and sent him off to Cecelia's room.

It was a small room, barren of any harmful objects. Safe. Sterile. No personal items adorned the room. He couldn't imagine how dreary and monotonous it must be to live in such surroundings day in and day out. He instantly felt sorry for the poor woman.

She sat on the bed; knees folded up to her chest, her chin resting on them. There was a single window, four feet square, affording a view of another wing of the sanitarium and a small portion of the surrounding grounds. That view was marred by steel bars, preventing patients on the upper floors from "checking out early" by taking a sudden leap.

Cecelia said nothing when he entered the room, nor did she shift her gaze, which currently rested on the opposite wall. Her glazed-over eyes told him that she probably wasn't even aware of his presence.

Cecelia's clothing was simple and as dreary as the rest of her surroundings. They were light gray, and looked like a cross between a prison uniform and a hospital gown. Her hair was cut shorter than he remembered it; a simple bob, straight and limp. It was easier to manage that way, he supposed.

She continued to stare off into space, and he didn't wish to rush her, so he walked over to the window to get a better view of the grounds.

As he looked out the small window, he thought of the last time he'd seen Cecelia; it was at the wedding. He would have liked to know her better – she seemed like a driven and spirited girl. It hurt to see her now, witnessing first hand what fate had in store for her all along. He wished now that he'd stayed in touch somehow… perhaps he could have prevented this.

Sighing, he turned to her. He'd never gotten along well with his son. They were like night and day. It was because of their volatile relationship that he hadn't kept in touch with either of them. He knew nothing of his son's life… if Cecelia and Jeff had conceived a child together, he probably wouldn't have known that either. Jeff had completely cut himself off from his family by the time he was nineteen. It was only because of Cecelia that he'd been invited to the wedding, and Jeff had no kind words to say to him during the entire affair.

He hadn't spoken to Jeff since. They hadn't exchanged a telephone conversation, a holiday greeting card, or a letter. There'd not been a single item of correspondence, not until Jeff's package a few weeks ago.

He had to admit that when he opened the letter and saw his son's handwriting he'd felt a fleeting sense of fatherly joy. They'd never gotten along, and he'd never really liked his son, but time could change a person… Well, no point in dwelling on what he'd felt at the time, because all hopes he had were dashed within a few seconds of opening the small package. It was postmarked from Mexico, of all places. Was that where Jeff was living now? Inside was a short note, nothing more. It was odd and disjointed and hard to read. Most of all, it was disturbing. The gist of it was that Jeff was apparently in a mess of trouble – only a matter of time as far as he was concerned – and needed him to hold on to the enclosed items. Oh, and don't open said items, either.

So he hadn't opened the small manila envelope enclosed within the larger one. His curiosity was killing him. He had to admit he'd held that small envelope in his hands, contemplating the possibility of opening it, at least a dozen times. But he never did open it. He wasn't sure why; if it was out of loyalty, habit, or fear of what might be inside.

He turned back to the window, and noticed approaching storm clouds.

"He's always watching."

Sheldon turned to see Cecelia looking at him. When their eyes met, he let out a small gasp.

"Oh!" he said, putting a hand to his chest. "You startled me. Who's watching?" he asked, walking over to her.

"_He_ is. He watches from outside the window. From the cameras. From the little window in the door." She leaned towards him, a hand grasping the bottom of his sportscoat with surprising strength. Her voice lowered conspiratorially. "He even watches my dreams."

He had the feeling that he knew who she was speaking of; his son. Jeff had not done well by her, but it was clear to him that his son was not capable of being a worthy husband to anyone. He was born without certain necessary qualities, it seemed.

"He's not watching you, Sweetie," he said, after a moment. He knew it was probably useless, but he said it anyway.

"He keeps them from letting me out. Always watching my door. No soul. No eyes, no soul."

He didn't point out that someone without eyes couldn't watch her. "Everyone has a soul. Even my son," he said softly. "Although sometimes even I have a hard time believing that."

"He's not real."

He furrowed his brow as he saw her gaze return to the opposite wall. It was hard to follow her, yet he instinctively knew what she meant despite her babbling. In a mad way, it all made sense. His son was capable of being many people, and of putting up a thoroughly convincing front whenever he wanted. It's what made knowing his son impossible; you could never really know a man like that. The sad truth of it was his son probably didn't know himself either.

"You're right," he said at last. He could see his response startled her, because she met his eyes again.

"I am?" She blinked, nonplussed, and then slowly lowered her legs to the ground. She looked at him a bit longer, then bit her lower lip and asked quietly, "Do I know you?"

"I'm Jeff's father. We met at your wedding."

Her eyes hardened, the quizzical expression on her face vanishing. "You're part of it. You're just another pair of his eyes." She stood. "He's always watching!" she shouted, coming towards him. "Always watching, always watching!"

Sheldon felt the urge to back away, but stood his ground. Although she was definitely disturbed, he thought that perhaps if he didn't get excited himself he could get through to her. "No. Jeff and I have not spoken for years. Not since the wedding. That's why we've only met once before."

Cecelia stopped, hands coming up to the sides of her face. She shook her head violently. "I can always feel him. Always. He's in my head!" She began to sob. "Get him out!"

He frowned. "Has Jeff come to visit you?" he asked, but before he got an answer the door to the room opened and two orderlies rushed in. One held a syringe, the other moved to hold Cecelia. As the orderly with the syringe sedated Cecelia, the other one told him that his visit was over.

As he exited the room he couldn't help but wonder what his son had done to her.

* * *

"I'm in D.C. Ava's body is in the park. Did she work for the NSA? CIA? I thought I heard El. The person who attacked me killed Ava, but let me go. Why do that? I work for the Central Intelligence Agency. A mariachi takes Washington? Cecelia is being transferred by Sheldon Sands," Sands mumbled. He was talking to himself quietly, not fully aware that he was speaking out loud. Too many thoughts flew through his mind at once, causing a monumental state of confusion.

None of it made sense. None of it. What event had to do with another? What was relevant and what was coincidence?

Then something came to him, and it stopped him in mid stride. Dry leaves blew across the path in front of him. A dog barked in the distance. "Vae!"

He picked up his pace.

Luckily the park wasn't busy, and Sands made it to the taxi without passing a single person. It was for the best, because he knew he must look like something the cat dragged in. He'd rather shoot an innocent bystander than answer nosy questions right then. He needed to think.

The taxi driver was as good as his word, and was still waiting with the taxi – and the meter – running. Sands hopped inside and shut the door. A slight chill ran down his back, and he convinced himself that it was from the frosty air outside, and not from finding Ava's dead body.

The cabbie asked where he wanted to go, and he gave the driver an address as he leaned back against the seat in exhaustion.

* * *

After leaving Cecelia's room, Sheldon tracked down the nurse who'd helped him earlier. It wasn't hard, as she was still in the same place he'd left her.

She looked up at him and smiled. "Yes?"

"Yeah, I just wanted to make sure my contact information is up to date."

"Sure," she said, moving back over to the computer. "What was the last name again?" she asked apologetically.

"Sands." He took an informational brochure out of its holder on the desk as he answered, and removed a pen from his inside coat pocket.

She nodded, and typed in the information. "Sheldon, right?"

"Yes."

She read off a cell phone number and apartment address, and he quickly jotted it down. He told her the information was correct, and then gave her an alternate phone number to keep her busy while he wrote down the last bit of the address. She looked up from the screen just as he folded the brochure in half and slipped it in his pocket.

"Well, that should do it," he said. "Thanks."

"Have a good evening, Mr. Sands."

* * *

He heard the buzz of the drill, and the sense of dread that came after was all consuming. He opened his eyes as sweat beaded on his brow. His vision was hazy and blurred at first; a result of the drug that ran through his veins. It made him feel numb all over, but he was still aware of what was going on around him.

He saw her first. That bitch, Ajedrez.

At least, that's who it should have been. But belatedly he realized it wasn't her.

It was Cecelia. He only saw her for a moment before his vision was blocked by Guevara, but he saw her long enough to register the cold, cruel smile on her lips.

"Sorry, Baby. I told you I wasn't interested in your schemes."

She said something more, but the sound of the drill, now in his line of sight, drowned out whatever it was.

As the pain hit, he jolted awake.

The feeling of motion made him feel slightly nauseated as he came back to reality; the tick of the turn signal reminding him of where he was. The taxi driver said nothing, but Sands felt the man's curious eyes on him as the taxi slowed, then made a right turn.

Sands rolled down the window, feeling suffocated in the stuffy cab. It smelled of sweat and stale French fries, most likely left over from the cabby's quick drive-through lunch. The fresh air helped alleviate his queasiness as he wiped the sweat off his brow with a portion of his sleeve.

_Calm. Down. _

He needed to deal with Cecelia. He needed to talk to Cam. He had to get back the microdots he'd taken off Jackson's body. He had to stop the Company from framing him. He needed to know what information Ava had for him.

'_Easy as cherry pie.'_

Most of all, he needed to get a grip.

He had a busy week ahead of him.

* * *

Latin Translations

Adeste Fideles – Oh come, all ye faithful.

Vae – Damn


	5. Bad Blood

**Chapter 5: Bad Blood **

Returning to his apartment Sands felt just as sick as he had in the cab. The ride in the elevator hadn't helped, and now as he took the single step down that separated the entry from the living room it felt as if the cabbie had just slammed on the brakes.

He teetered a moment as he retracted his cane and tossed it onto a nearby chair, all the while trying to convince himself that it wasn't Ava's corpse that had him feeling so ill, but the smell of stale fast food in the cab.

Walking into the living room, he snagged the phone out of its charger as he passed by it. He'd tried to call Cam on his way back home only to discover that his cell phone battery was dead.

Sands sank slowly into the sofa, finger ready to dial, only he couldn't remember Cam's number.

_Vae. Who needed to remember numbers when they had a cell phone, anyway?_

He must have sat there a full minute with his thumb hovering over '1' before dialing information.

Information could only give him Cam's home phone number; it wasn't his first choice. There was always the chance of getting Cam's wife instead, and he hadn't talked to her in years.

Still, since Cam seemed to be MIA and hadn't answered his cell all day maybe he'd have better luck reaching Cam at his house. Information patched him through and after a couple of rings Cam picked up.

"What hole did you bury yourself in?" Sands asked by way of greeting.

Cam sighed heavily, no doubt a sign that he hadn't recognized Sands' land line on the caller ID. "What do you want?"

"From life in general or from you?"

"You know damn well, and if you don't get to the point I'm hanging up."

Sands raised his eyebrows, surprised by Cam's sudden intolerance to his normal lingo, and wondered what the problem was. "I need you to mosey on over here."

"No, not this time."

Sands sat on his couch nonplussed. "What?" he asked after a moment, a mixture of confusion and anger in his tone.

"I'm not coming, Sands. I've had enough, all right?"

"Enough?" Sands asked with a disbelieving laugh. After everything Sands went through in Mexico – both times – Cam had the nerve to say **he'd** had enough? Cam hadn't _seen_ anything, _felt_ anything, in comparison to his experiences. It was truly laughable. "A little weak in the stomach, Cam? It's never _enough_. Not until the job is done."

"And what job it that?" Cam asked, sarcasm lacing his tone. "To annihilate every last person who did you wrong? To teach the Company a lesson? To get your life back?" He took a deep breath before continuing, and Sands knew deep down what was coming next. He'd have stopped Cam from saying it, if he hadn't felt his stomach lurch at just that very moment. It took everything he had to keep from losing the hickory barbeque burger he'd had for lunch. "It's never going to be the same as it was before, Jeff! You are never going to get back what they took from you. Besides, do you honestly think the Company is going to welcome you back with open arms after what's happened?"

Sands grip on the phone tightened. Feeling clammy, he wiped the sweat forming on his brow with his free hand. Even though he felt as if he were going to be sick, he forced his voice to remain steady and calm sounding as he answered. By the sound of his voice no one would have suspected he felt as rotten as he did. "As much as I love delusion in others, I generally don't indulge in it myself. The Company has never welcomed me with open arms. You of all people should know that. Why would I expect them to start now? That… would be crazy." He paused for a moment, and then reflected, "Or maybe you think I've finally made it round the bend. Is that it?"

Oh, he knew the truth of the words all right, but there was still something that stopped him from voicing the reality of the situation.

"You can't deny you're a crazy son-of-a-bitch," Cam stated, rather sarcastically. It was so unlike Cam that one thing became perfectly clear; someone was applying the pressure, he just had to find out who that someone was.

"Of course, but bat-shit insane I'm not." Feeling the nausea abate somewhat, Sands stood up slowly and walked over to his nearest window.

"So, you're pulling yourself out of the game before the end of the second inning…" Sands said, ignoring the dizziness that assaulted his senses as he continued. "What is it? You only want to pitch for the winning team?"

The sound of Cam's light breathing was the only thing that told Sands his ex-partner was still on the other line as he slid open the window.

"Think whatever you want. You will anyway," Cam said tonelessly, and then hung up before Sands had a chance to say anything else.

Sands let the crisp, cold air wash over him as he tossed the phone towards the couch. From the sound of it, it missed and hit the floor.

He didn't care. Sitting down on the ground, leaning against the side of the couch, he let the fresh air ease his rebellious stomach, and then remembered something even better. He dug through his pockets, found his cigarettes and lit up.

As he took a deep drag, letting the nicotine do that magical thing it did so well, he realized that he wasn't quite finished with Cam.

If Cam thought he was going to have the last word, then he was seriously mistaken. He'd just have to pay Cam a little visit, and there was no time like the present.

* * *

Damn, he missed driving.

Sitting in the back of the cab, still feeling queasy, he remembered speeding down the open road with his favorite tunes cranked up on the stereo with nostalgia and some bitterness.

_Never again._

It normally took about fifteen minutes to get to Cam's house from his apartment, but at ten o'clock at night it seemed like it took no time at all. Granted, time not only flies when you're having fun, but also when you're completely whacked out as well.

The minute the cabbie pulled up, Sands told him to stay put and got out of the cab.

Walking up to the door, Sands knocked and kept knocking until someone answered.

As it turned out, Cam's wife was the one to get the door and he was inside before she even had a chance to express her surprise at his sudden appearance.

"Jeffrey!"

"Trick or treat, Megan."

"With you it's always trick."

In no mood for any more banter, Sands jumped straight to the point. "I'm here to see Cam."

"I didn't know you were coming."

"Then you're not psychic. Too bad; I hear Cleo made a killing before early retirement. Where's Eric?"

He could feel the displeasure radiating off her before she said a single word. When she did answer, her tone certainly didn't contradict his feeling. "He's probably in his office. Stay here and I'll get him."

"On your front porch? Really. I remembered you as being a far more gracious host."

Sands didn't bother removing his coat as he pushed himself inside the house. Having been there before, he didn't have too much trouble as he walked into the living room, the cane prodding the area in front of him as he found his way in. He briefly wondered if Megan already knew he was blind, if she'd just failed to notice the telltale cane and glasses, or if she'd just chosen to ignore it all together. He and Megan never had meshed well together, the reason for which should be no great mystery to anyone.

He still felt like something the cat dragged in, and he was starting to think that maybe he was coming down with something.

Finding the sofa, he retracted his cane and put it away as he sat down.

Cam came into the room a minute later, and Sands noted that by the sound of it, Megan hadn't followed.

"God damn it! I told you I've had enough. Why can't you just leave me out of it from here on in?" Cam asked, not bothering to sit down.

Taking note of the fact that Cam didn't call him Jeff like he normally did, Sands grinned devilishly. "Well, I have a question for you."

"Yeah?"

"This didn't pop into my brain until I got you on the horn, and on the ride over here it had time to knock around my noggin for a bit. You're so anxious to fold and I ask myself… what would make Cam put his tail between his legs and run like the devil was after him? Do you know what I came up with?" Sands asked. He didn't wait for a reply before answering the question himself. "Getting his hands dirty."

"You don't think what I did in Mexico qualifies?"

"Poor Eric Cameron; a spy who can't stand any dirt underneath his perfectly manicured fingernails. Or maybe," Sands held up a finger as if inspiration had struck. "Maybe, the devil really is after him."

"I thought that was you," Cam retorted before sighing. "If you're not aware, its ten o'clock at night and…"

"…I wasn't invited. Yup, I'm well aware of both facts, Count Chocula."

"If you have nothing interesting to say, I think you know where the door is."

Well, if Cam wanted to get right to the point he could certainly oblige. Sands asked coldly, "Did you know Ava was going to die tonight?"

There was a long, heavy silence. Sands brushed his hand along the arm of the couch, his finger catching a bit of ripped upholstery. He rubbed a small bit of the threadbare fabric between his fingers, remembering Cam's modest furnishings from his last visit.

For the job they did, they didn't get much in return.

"What?" Cam managed to whisper, clearly shocked by Sands' news, and like an electrical jolt to the system Sands knew what had been bouncing around in Eric Cameron's mind.

_Too much risky business._

With Cam's help in Mexico, Sands had forgotten one important and key fact about Eric Cameron.

Cam was a tree; rooted to the ground, stable, no big gambles, no risks. Cam only went so far out of his "safety zone" before he reeled himself back in, and that was exactly what he was doing now.

But, Sands couldn't help but wonder, what had triggered it?

"She's dead," Sands repeated without emotion, keeping Cam blind to his mini-epiphany. If Cam was going to bail out of the game, the least he could do was make him feel like shit about it.

Besides, guilt was the easiest way to get him back in the game. Perhaps the one and only way.

"My God… How?" Cam asked, collapsing in the chair next to him, his reaction so delayed that it made Sands think Cam was so wound up the news hadn't even registered the first time he said it.

Sands shrugged. "For some reason, she had a hard time telling me. Must have had something to do with her being dead." He stood up and again found his head swimming and his stomach doing flips. He extended his cane, leaning on it heavily at first, more for balance than anything, and met Cam on the other side of the room.

He waited until he stood right in front of Cam before continuing. "She was quite the gifted character actress, but in the end I suspect she played one too many parts."

Sands leaned in towards Cam. Grasping the arms of the chair Cam was sitting in he effectively pinned Cam to his seat, making it impossible for him to turn away. "So, what character are you playing?"

There was a sharp intake of breath. "Depends on which one you're playing."

"Oh, but you can learn quickly." Sands smiled wickedly. "Have you figured it out yet?"

"Figured out what?"

Sands clucked his tongue in mock dismay. "Have you figured out what the job is?"

"No."

"A shift in power has occurred. One that I don't fancy living with. It's time for power to shift back to me. They won't ruin my life," Sands answered quietly, but with a force to the words that left no doubt that he meant it. "They won't ruin _me_."

"Like you ruined Cecelia?" Cam asked quietly.

Sands stood upright immediately, surprised by Cam's sudden bluntness and change in topic. It must have shown in his face – damn it all – because Cam seemed to scoff at his reaction.

"What? You thought I'd never bring it up? You ruined her, and then you got rid of her. Isn't that how it went down?"

"What could you possible know about it?" Sands asked, real anger in his tone. This was not the topic he wanted to discuss. This was not what he came here for. He swiftly reined his emotions in. "Did Megan plant this seed? I know how buddy-buddy she used to be with Cecelia."

"Leave Megan out of this. It's what you should have done with Cecelia. But then, perhaps you were just trying to force a… shift of power."

Sands frowned, at the situation as much as at Cam's words. Every path he explored led back to _her_, like some endless maze that always ended back at the beginning.

And Cam had managed to best him in this duel of dialogue. He was not on his game tonight.

He'd not been on his game in a long time, if he got right down to it.

Sands stood upright again, distracted by his thoughts. Cam shifted in his seat, taking a deep breath as he reclaimed his personal space.

Turning his back to Cam, Sands found his way to the front door. He put his hand on the knob, but didn't open the door, instead turning back to Cam.

"I'll do whatever it takes. You know that." Sands smiled grimly as he remembered the first Latin he'd ever learned… from dear old dad. "Per omnia saecula saeculorum."

_For ever and ever._


	6. Penny For Your Thoughts

**Chapter 6: Penny For Your Thoughts**

_I don't care._

At least, that's what he kept telling himself over and over again as he waited in a surprisingly uncomfortable chair for Dr. Beck, psychiatrist extraordinaire, to meet with him. He could think of a thousand places he'd rather be at this very moment, and one of them was Mexico.

Unlike the last time he'd been to Windhill Sanitarium – how long had it been? Five years? Six? – the place was eerily quiet, save for some occasional typing and paper shuffling coming from the busy receptionist.

Quiet places used to be calming, offering a great opportunity to plot his next scheme. Now, it seemed as if such places had the opposite effect on his state of mind. Sands shifted uncomfortably in his chair, the leather squeaking from the movement.

_What would Cecelia think of you now?_

What would she think of him now? His confidence was what attracted her to him from the beginning, she'd said as much, and even after they married that had never changed.

"_The world could stop turning and if you believed it would start its consistent spinning once again… it would. Just because you wanted it to."_

He didn't care what she thought of him… not now, not ever. He didn't. She wouldn't expect him to.

_I don't care._

What he needed to do was concentrate on who was behind her attempted transfer before they started their big dance number. Besides, he didn't plan on seeing her; literally or figuratively, so why worry?

More shuffling of papers brought his attention back to the present. A person hurrying by in a rush made his own anxiety rise ten-fold. He took a deep breath, antsy at having to wait so long to speak with Dr. Beck. It had to have been at least twenty minutes, and that twenty seemed like forty in his current state.

The phone rang and was picked up by the receptionist on the second ring.

After a moment, she addressed him, and he felt relieved. Doing nothing was never his style, especially when there was so much to be done. "Mr. Sands, Dr. Beck is ready to see you."

He stood slowly – careful not to upset his queasy stomach – and extended his cane. The nurse walked towards him, high heels clacking against the tile floor in a steady rhythm.

She paused in front of him, about four feet away, and after a few seconds of silence she seemed to come to a decision. "Follow me," she said, walking off to his right.

He uncharacteristically remained quiet as he trailed behind her. It was hard to say whether his fried nerves came from finding Ava's body, his fall out with Cam, his upset stomach, or the fact that he was currently in the same booby-hatch as Cecelia.

After a short walk down the hall, the nurse stopped and opened a door to their left. Stepping inside, he followed.

_Like a well trained puppy._

"Mr. Sands!" Dr. Beck said, with fake enthusiasm, and it snapped Sands out of his dismal train of thought instantly.

Sands heard Beck stand and walk around his desk to greet him.

"It's been a long…" Beck paused, and as the nurse closed the door behind him, he bet his most treasured collectible lunch tin that he knew why.

"…time," Beck finished, recovering himself quickly. "Take a seat. North east, about five steps."

At least he didn't waste any time with apologies… and knew how to give directions.

Taking a seat and making himself comfortable in Beck's overstuffed chair, Sands got right down to it. After waiting so long in the lobby, he wasn't in the mood for small talk.

"I've made my grand appearance. What's up next, Doc?" Sands asked.

"I decide what's in her best interest."

"Oh, and I thought that was my role." Sands raised an eyebrow, tucking his cane away and noting how much more comfortable this chair was in comparison to the last. "What happened to proving that I didn't sign that paper?" he questioned, keeping his tone neutral.

"You've already done that," Beck said dismissively, and Sands imagined him waving his hand in the air to accentuate his point on the matter. "But you're not an easy man to get a hold of, so as long as you're here… I might as well make good use of you."

Sands didn't like where this seemed to be heading or the vibe he was getting from Dr. Beck. "I don't make house calls. Besides, I'm not the type of person to be put to _good _use," he said wryly. "I'm in no mood to dick around with you. What is it you want?"

"What if it was for a good cause?" Beck asked with a note of challenge in his voice.

"What is this really about?"

"Why, it's about your life, Mr. Sands."

His breath caught in his throat. Sands wasn't sure he'd heard correctly. "You wanna run that by me again?"

"Your wife, Mr. Sands. This is about your wife."

Funny, Sands could swear that wasn't what he'd said, but he was strangely unsure of what he'd actually heard. Beck's voice hadn't given away anything either. Sands shook his head slightly, trying to clear it. "You're a little dense for a shrink," he said. "That wasn't what I was talking about."

Beck sighed, and didn't answer right away. Instead there was a rustling of plastic, and the sound of him eating something crunchy and hard. "Nuts?" he offered after chewing a handful of them.

Sands flashed a smile that made most uneasy. "No. You are what you eat, after all."

"As I said over the phone, someone used your name to visit Cecelia. He then forged your signature in an effort to get her transferred. Do you have any idea who this man could have been?"

"Why not a woman?" Sands asked flippantly.

"I'm serious."

"So am I. You never can tell these days." Sands snapped his fingers, as if in revelation. "Or maybe it was the ghost of Christmas past! Wait… you said he was older. Christmas future then," he corrected himself.

He felt as if he was trying too hard to keep his nerves from the dear old doctor. The more he thought about it, the more he believed that this wasn't the work of the Company. Yet there was no one else that could be behind it, was there?

"You said you got a gander at this imposter? What'd he look like?" he asked.

"Far too old to be you. In his sixties, I'd say. A little taller. Lighter hair, going gray on the sides."

Not good, Sands thought. Catching the frown that was beginning to form on his face and replacing it with a smirk, he continued. "Maybe this is a ridiculous question, but if he clearly wasn't yours truly how'd he so easily authorize a transfer?"

"The nurse helped him with all the forms, and she'd never met you. He presented valid ID, as far as she could tell, and the name on it was Sheldon Jeffery Sands. The nurse on duty had no idea what you looked like, your age… no real reason to be suspicious other than the age difference between him and Cecelia."

He could only think of one possibility; it had been Sheldon Jeffery Sands, just not the right one.

Sands swallowed. This could be worse than the Company attempting to gain control over her… at least, if it was who he thought it was.

It had to be his father, and it seemed like something the old goat might do if he thought it his moral duty or some bullshit like that. It was the only explanation that made sense.

The Company could have easily forged his signature and identification, true. The thing of it was, the Company would have certainly gotten someone that looked more like him, and definitely closer to his age, to pose as him. This was too sloppy, and too easy to disprove.

And there was only one other person he knew of who could legally say they were Sheldon Jeffery Sands, and that man fit the age range and physical description Beck had given him.

So this wasn't the work of the Company after all.

He felt better having solved at least part of the mystery, but he was still left with far more questions than answers. Thinking it best he didn't clue in Dr. Beck, he came to the conclusion that it was best to split this Popsicle stand as soon as humanly possible.

"Cancel the transfer, Doctor," Sands said, reaching into his pocket for his cane… but what Beck said in response made him stop mid-motion.

"No."

"Excuse me? Legally you don't have a choice."

"Mr. Sands, you also haven't shown me any valid ID and look quite a bit different from when I last saw you. You also have something to prove."

"I seem to recall you saying that I'd already done that."

"Did I?"

"Are you saying I'm not me? Can I testify to the fact that I am me? Or do I need to bring me in to clear things up for me?"

Another crunch as Beck crammed more nuts in his mouth. It was starting to get annoying. "Frankly, I don't know where your interests lie, but they're clearly not getting your wife well."

"You wound me."

"I wish I could. But to do that you'd have to care first, and I don't think you do. I don't believe you care at all."

He couldn't really argue, but he would anyway. Officer Sands wouldn't be read so easily; not by some two-bit doctor, of that he was sure. He didn't care. After all, he put her there and never looked back, but Beck didn't need to know that. "How perceptive. Come to that conclusion in three minutes, did you?"

"No. In all the years she's been in my charge."

"Because I never saw her? Maybe I didn't want to make her worse? Or maybe I was out of the country? Maybe, just maybe, I cared too much to come and undo all the progress you'd undoubtedly made in my absence?" Sands said, having a hard time keeping his face serious. Even he had to concede that he was full of it.

"You never called to check on her, that's why. How many years has it been since you last saw her, Mr. Sands?"

"Ah, so you brought me here to scold me?" Sands asked sarcastically, avoiding the question.

"Hardly. I just wanted to see if you have what it takes."

"How do you know I won't end up taking what you've got?" Sands threw back. "I could stop the transfer anyway. I just have to go above your head, and that shouldn't be too hard a climb."

"Perhaps, but why bother? You clearly don't care so why go to all the trouble?"

Ah, so that was how Dr. Beck was going to play it. He was willing to bet Beck wouldn't transfer Cecelia, but he had to wonder what might happen to his legal status as her guardian if he didn't visit her now. Would he lose control over her if he demonstrated so bluntly that he didn't give a shit by his past and present actions? Certainly, Cecelia's sister would like nothing more than to assume legal control and this might give her the ammunition to do just that.

"I think you're frightened," Beck stated, as if the realization had just come to him. "You're scared to see her."

"No chance of that."

Beck said nothing for a moment, then continued to stoke the fire, "Or are you scared of letting her see you? Not everything you used to be?"

"Is that your professional opinion? I'm glad I'm not paying you by the hour to solve my problems… not that you could handle them anyway." Sands' lips tightened into a thin line and he stood as he spoke. "You're not everything I thought you were. Maybe transferring her isn't a bad idea after all."

"Yeah? Prove it."

_Vae_. He'd let a second rate quack maneuver him into a battle of egos. Now he was on the defensive, feeling as if he had something to prove.

Sure, he hadn't been blind to what Beck had been up to, but he hadn't managed to get himself out of this inevitable meeting with Cecelia. A meeting that he didn't want to happen but was now unable to stop without looking like a fool or too indifferent to Cecelia's needs to be in charge of her care.

It wasn't long before they were standing in front of the door that led to the very woman he'd been trying to steer clear of for the last five or so years. Really, how long had it been? He was starting to wonder why he couldn't quite remember.

"Try not to get too upset," Beck said, before unlocking the door and opening it.

Sands stepped through with a smart ass remark on the tip of his tongue, but it never made it past his lips. He was immediately struck silent by a sense of dread. It was as if he'd just stepped into the lion's cage at the zoo without anything to protect himself.

_It's feeding time, _Sands thought grimly.

He didn't feel the way he did because Cecelia was in the room. He felt the way he did because as soon as he heard the door close and lock behind him, he knew she wasn't.


	7. Reality

**Chapter 7 – Reality**

The silence in his mind was deafening.

He was a fucking idiot. There was no other way to put it. He'd let them lead him here under false pretenses and he hadn't seen it coming… again.

How many times did he have to play the victim before he'd get it?

He didn't turn towards the door. He didn't pound at it, demanding to be let out, and he didn't ask if anyone was inside the room with him.

Instead, he moved further into the room until his cane touched a chair, and sat down. He'd wait for whoever it was to come, and God help them when they did, because he wasn't in the mood to take any prisoners.

A few minutes passed without a sound… not even footsteps coming from outside the room. Perhaps the room was soundproof; it would certainly make sense.

Another minute passed, and he shifted in his chair. Ironically enough, he was beginning to wish Cecelia was here after all.

Tucking his cane away, he took his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and removed one.

The though of Cecelia was distracting as he rifled through his coat pockets for a lighter. He was in a whole new shit-storm now, and it was beginning to become apparent that Cecelia was an increasingly important part of this whole conspiracy.

In his right coat pocket his fingers brushed against something that felt cold and metallic. It also didn't feel familiar at all.

He pulled the object out of his pocket and examined it. The shape was distinct, and it didn't take long to figure out that it was a key. But it was no house key, or modern key of any kind; it felt like an antique skeleton key; the sort one would see in the eighteen hundreds used to lock the psychotic family member away in the basement.

Frowning, Sands turned it over in his hand a few more times before dropping it back into his pocket and resuming the hunt for his lighter. He could worry about where it came from later.

He leaned back and sighed as he found the object of his search. Lighting up and taking a deep drag he pondered the current situation he now found himself in.

He did his best thinking while smoking. Perhaps he should never stop.

He was locked in a sanitarium, he felt like shit, and he hadn't a clue where Cecelia was tucked away… or even who was responsible for this whole mess in the first place.

How did his father fit into all of this? Or was that all part of the game? Did it mean the Company had somehow gotten his evidence from Mexico from dear old dad?

How did Ava's death tie in? Or did it?

The plucking of a guitar string caught his attention, and he nearly dropped the cigarette from between his fingers in his surprise. It had been short, out of tune, and barely audible.

No, that wasn't right. It wasn't audible. He didn't feel like anyone was in the room with him, and it sounded… outside of himself somehow.

_Odd._

His stomach cramped up painfully, and he realized his palms were sweaty.

Sick… he was just getting sick, was all. Maybe it was the flu. He needed rest.

The clink of a boot made him stand. He caught his balance, his hand going out to grasp the back of the chair.

The sounds couldn't be real – had to be in his mind – and that made the situation even more disturbing. It was like what he'd heard in the park, only then it had seemed real. Now, there was an off and somehow unreal quality that was hard to describe.

The knowledge that he was hearing things didn't make him feel any better, however.

He held a palm to his forehead, realizing how much he'd begun to sweat as his hand pulled away sticky and damp. He fell back down onto the chair as a rush of dizziness hit him and his stomach twisted uneasily again.

He'd always wondered if the room could swim if you couldn't see it. He was unhappy to report that the answer was yes.

"_The window."_

His head tilted to the side.

Window?

Ah yes, perhaps there was a window? He took another hit off his cigarette, standing again, arms outstretched, his cane remaining tucked away in his coat, forgotten.

Sands walked forward until his hands made contact with the wall directly in front of him. He ran his right palm searchingly along its smooth surface until he encountered the corner.

He moved onto the next wall, doing the same thing. Then the next. He found the door he'd entered through; tried it, and found it locked.

Taking his hands off the wall he stood in front of the door for a moment. Sticking the smoldering cigarette between his lips, he dug into his coat pocket and came up with the key he'd found earlier.

Maybe his family wanted him to get out of the basement?

He felt for a keyhole the key would fit into, but came up with nothing. He held it in his hand a moment, still curious as to why the hell he had such an outdated key in his pocket.

Well, only a matter of time before he figured it out…

"_It's only a matter of time…"_

Sands felt a chill crawl up his spine. Cecelia had told him that the other day... at the theatre.

No, that wasn't right.

Sands dropped the key into his pocket and pulled the cigarette out of his mouth. That had been a dream. He hadn't met Cecelia at the theatre in reality. In reality it had been…

Who had it been again?

"Can't unlock the door if you don't have the key." Sands spun around at the sound of Cecelia's voice behind him.

"Where's the right key?"

He hadn't even realized that he wasn't seeing her until she suddenly appeared in the chair. Darkness surrounded her, and she held up a key in her right hand, smiling mischievously. "Oh, dear. It seems like I have it. Too bad for you. Guess now you'll have to come see me."

"What?" he asked, thoroughly confused. His head began to pound, a nasty stab of pain hitting him squarely between the eyes. "I see you now."

"No you don't."

She was gone. He turned back towards the door; it was gone too.

His breathing hitched a bit as panic started to set in. The cigarette began to burn his fingers, and he dropped it, continuing his search. Was it just him or was the wall closer than it was the last time he touched it?

"Window, window, window…" he whispered to himself, continuing his circuit around the room, stopping only after he realized that he'd felt-out seven walls when there were probably only four.

Sands paused his frantic efforts, hands still against the wall, and attempted to crack his stiff neck. Why was he looking for a window, again?

He dropped his hands back down to his side.

Shit. This wasn't good.

_Like slow-roasted pork that's too good…_

He ran a hand through his hair, pulling the stray strands off his face. He took off his coat and threw it across the room. It was hot as hell in this little room.

That's why he was sweating. It must be the hot noonday sun; the arid Mexican heat made it feel that much hotter outside.

He shook his head as his senses suddenly dulled, as if being smothered by a thick blanket, making everything outside of it muffled and unclear.

He took a deep breath in the stifling heat, fumbling as he grabbed his pack of cigarettes.

Wait, didn't he just have one in his hand?

Wasn't there now. Shrugging it off, he stuck a cigarette in his mouth, and noticed the faint sound of… what was that? Talking?

He walked forward, his legs like jelly, his breath quicker than it should have been. The voices became louder.

Hand in front of him again, he came in contact with the cold, smooth wall. Yes, the voices were coming from the other side. The sound of laughing hit him first, and then a man boasting about how important he was.

He pressed his ear against the wall, holding his breath as he did so, but it was quiet now. He breathed silently through his nose, and waited. His hands were frozen against the wall, and his whole body tense.

Ten seconds, then there was movement on the other side of the wall… someone moving closer. That was good. He couldn't hear what was going on.

A woman's voice. "Sorry, Baby."

_Familiar._

"Who are you spying on now, Shelly?" Cecelia asked, her voice coming from right beside his ear. He jumped slightly despite himself, and the cigarette that was dangling between his lips fell to the floor. He hadn't heard her approach.

He turned to look at her but it was so dark he could barely make out her features. He pushed himself away from the wall and she followed as he walked back to the chair.

He sat down, and she perched herself on the arm of the chair. A glimmer of light from the street light below filtered in through the open window behind her.

"You're such a snoop," Cecelia said. His gaze shifted from the window to her face, just barely lit by the faint glow. It was just enough to make out her small smile and teasing eyes; the rest of her was only a silhouette – gray against the impossible darkness that engulfed the rest of the room.

"I think our neighbors are having freaky Friday," he drawled, amused.

She slapped him playfully on the shoulder but he didn't really feel it. For a second his vision seemed to blur. Cecelia's silhouetted form shifted into two, and then back to one again, like a ghosted image on an old television set. He brought a hand up to his face to rub his tired eyes. Only, he found glasses in his way. When did he put those on?

Confusion furrowing his brow, he took them off. Who wore sunglasses in the middle of the night?

"Ceceli-" he began to ask, but she wasn't there any more. Neither was the window, or anything else.

His breath caught in his throat, his lips parted slightly, and someone stuck his forgotten cigarette between his lips.

His mouth closed around it instinctively, and he became aware that he was shivering, nauseous and dizzy.

He was fucked up, to put it simply.

"Powerful stuff," said an unfamiliar voice to his left. The voice was that of an older man, with no discernable accent, but a distinct no-nonsense tone.

Sands doubled over when another violent cramp hit him and someone grabbed hold of his arm to keep him from falling out of the chair and onto the ground.

A second set of hands grasped his other arm roughly, rolling up his sleeve. He was in too much pain to struggle, or even voice his protest as he began to gag, unable to breathe.

He didn't have time to comprehend what was happening to him, pain exploding in his lungs as he struggled for air.

Something pierced his skin – most likely a needle – and within twenty seconds his senses snapped back into focus. The pain spread from his lungs, up his throat and straight into his head, becoming unbearable.

Before he knew it, he was on the floor, hands holding him down by the shoulders.

"Damn it! You assured me we had time!" a second person said directly above him, sounding angry. Again familiar, yet their identity hopelessly lost to him… he couldn't think or concentrate, and was only certain of two things; he was in excruciating pain, and he was about to die.


	8. In the Dark

**Chapter 8 – In the Dark**

"_We need a test subject."_

_Sands looked up from his mindless doodling to meet Neil's steadfast gaze. The other three PsyOps officers had gone quiet; for a few seconds no one even breathed. _

"_No shit, Sherlock," Sands said with a smirk, first to break the silence._

_Everyone breathed again, but the tension in the air was stifling. While everyone else was hindered by it, Sands thrived on it. He tossed down his pen and leaned back in his chair, folding his arms behind his head as he scrutinized the five "peers" sitting around the table. Two faces showed determination, while three others looked lost, and all of them were trying to hide their nervousness about the 'touchy' subject. "Case any of you've forgotten, we're here to monkey-fuck people's minds." _

_Neil was quick to jump back into the conversation, after having brought the meeting to a standstill. He discreetly ignored Sands' comment when he spoke. "We all knew this was coming."_

_Officer McFearson twitched beside him, mumbling incoherently under his breath. McFearson – who was known to have an annoyingly vocal opinion on every subject under the sun – had been oddly tongue-tied the entire day. Sands regarded him with detached interest, observing the beads of sweat on his forehead, matted salt-and-pepper hair, and silently moving lips. No one else seemed aware of their fellow agent's odd state, too caught up in the heated discussion._

"_We're not even sure we're ready for that," Kane – ever the cautious one – was saying as Sands tuned back into the banter. _

_Returning to the discussion Sands grinned devilishly. "Scared to get your hands dirty?"_

"_We still don't know…"_

"_Never will, bucko," Sands cut in smoothly. "Not until we…"_

"_Go through the window and see the white whale!" McFearson blurted, as if against his will._

_Sands instantly shut his mouth, utterly thrown. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been cut-off mid sentence. Directing his full attention to the officer beside him, he watched as McFearson went back to his incomprehensible muttering. _

_A quick look around the table affirmed that everyone else was finally noticing his unusual condition as well._

_Sands observed McFearson for a few seconds longer, catching fragments of his crazed conversation with himself but unable to make any sense of it. Something about life through a window and mirrors that reflected back a doppelganger or some bullshit like that._

_Neil said quietly, "I think he's cracked."_

_Sands was less subtle. He slammed his fist down on the hardwood table beside McFearson, synchronizing the action with a loud, "Hey! Hey!" to get the raving man's attention._

_It worked. McFearson jerked, eyes wide, looking as if a corpse had fallen on the table in front of him rather than Sands' fist. His eyes shot from the tabletop to Sands._

"_You crazy or what?" Sands asked, keeping his tone neutral. Unfortunately Sands saw the truth in McFearson's eyes. _

_He was crazy as a fucking fruit bat._

"_Sands!" Neil reproached, apparently not too keen on his methods._

_Sitting back in his chair, Sands shrugged, while McFearson continued to watch him. "Just asking. My momma told me that no question is a stupid question."_

"_I see you through the window," McFearson stated seriously, his dementia solely focused on Sands. Wasn't he lucky?_

_Rolling his eyes, Sands chuckled. "Yeah? What else do you see? A tornado coming to take you to Oz?"_

_McFearson twitched again, but this time more violently. "Wouldn't be the first time," he said, letting loose a wild laugh that went on entirely too long._

_Sands hitched up a second eyebrow and crossed his hands over his chest as Neil picked up the phone to call for assistance. Mad as a hatter. Sands didn't know how it happened, but the brewing of a suspicion was fermenting in his brain._

_They needed a test subject and like a Christmas miracle a perfect candidate had just fallen down their chimney. Well, Sands sure as hell didn't believe in flying reindeer and a creepy fat man breaking into children's homes in the middle of the night for milk and cookies._

_He believed in conspiracy, and he believed he was smack dab in the middle of one._

_Smiling as two security guards came in and confiscated the cackling package he thought to himself, "It's finally time to have a little fun."_

Then it all went dark.

* * *

Leisurely, one at a time, his senses returned as he came back to consciousness. Touch was the first; he was lying down somewhere soft and warm. Next was sound; the ticking of an old clock, a classic _I Love Lucy_ episode playing on TV somewhere outside the room he was currently occupying. Then smell; fresh sheets and vanilla.

Definitely not his apartment.

He opened his eyes… and… nothing.

Nothing?

Heedless of his mind, not yet jumpstarted with the rest of his consciousness, his heart began to race. He tried to swallow twice before finally managing it, his throat parched. Smooth cotton sheets were twisted in his balled up fists as he fought his rising panic.

He tried to think. Tried to remember where he was. Couldn't get a handle on any of it. His mind jumping randomly from one thought or memory to another at dizzying speed.

He kicked off the sheet that covered him, feeling suffocated.

This situation felt familiar, the impression of déjà-vu was strong. It was beginning to override his panic.

_Vae! Why can't I think? Why can't I see?_

Every sense had returned to him full force; stronger, even, than before. Everything except the most important sense of all; sight. What use was a spy who couldn't spy?

Free of the sheets, his right hand reached up to his face, and finding his sunglasses the reality hit him full force.

_Blind._

Oh.

It was a funny thing, but that single fact stopped his mind from playing hop-scotch. It didn't bring any realization back with it; it just ground everything to a frightening halt. He fell back into the pillow, instantly overwhelmed with an exhaustion so intense it was crippling.

* * *

Eric Cameron sat staring at the TV. Despite the fact that he'd been on the same channel for half an hour, he had no idea what he was watching. He didn't see the images on the screen, or hear the words being spoken through the speakers. Instead he replayed a scene two hours previously; Officer Karlin showing up on his doorstep unannounced with an uncomprehending and disheveled Sheldon Jeffery Sands in tow.

Karlin didn't divulge much information, but Eric hadn't expected him to. Big things were going down, and he was a man low on the totem pole.

Apparently, so was Sands.

Take Sands and, when he woke up, insist that he had never left since his last visit. It wasn't a request. Cam either did it, or he was out. Period.

He tossed back a more than healthy swallow of Corona. It was his second bottle and it was only nine in the morning. He was damn lucky Megan wasn't home. The beer not included, he sure as hell didn't want to explain this current turn of events to his wife. To say she'd be unhappy would be the understatement of the year.

They told him that Sands might not make sense when he finally came to. That he might say crazy things. That he might be crazy. Not to pay attention. Eric's grip tightened on the remote control in his hand. He was to stick to the story he'd been fed by Karlin, no matter what.

He had to lie to his ex-partner's face, and he had to be convincing. Even though they weren't on what anyone would call 'good terms' with each other at the moment, the very thought of helping drive Jeff crazy made him feel sick inside.

He swallowed thickly and cold beer ran down his throat. He wondered, not for the first time, why the hell he'd ever joined the Company.

_What have they done to you, Jeff?_

He finished off his beer, setting the bottle down on the coffee table with a loud clunk. It was time to check on his guest.

_Time to betray your partner._

* * *

He didn't know how long he laid there, his mind blank and refusing, before the sound of a door opening caused him to tense involuntarily.

"Sands?" a man's voice queried. Familiar… but he was too worn out to connect a name or a face with the voice.

Sands exhaled slowly and twisted his head to face his visitor. "I hope you're the angel of death," he said without humor. His throat, he quickly discovered, was as dry as his tone. He sat up slowly, quickly disoriented. He reached a hand down to the bed to steady himself as he clutched his head with the other hand.

"No, sorry to disappoint you," the man said, entering fully. The voice he recognized – the name just out of reach – but there was something odd about its tone.

Instinct told Sands he didn't need to be worried about the other man, but it fought against his reason and his situation.

Still, he couldn't focus. Couldn't pinpoint what the man's tone meant. He bent his knees, resting his head on them as his hands moved to his hair, grasping and pulling it painfully. He gritted his teeth, withholding a groan at the pain he was causing himself.

Yet it seemed to be helping. Grounding him. Bringing him back.

"You're not in Kansas anymore," Sands whispered to himself.

"Jeff, are you alright?" the voice asked, sounding worried.

Sands' flinched at its close proximity. How had the man gotten so close without him hearing it?

Sands held his hand out in warning. "Act like a fucking tree!" he ground out.

The rustle of the man's clothes stilled and there was a delay before he asked, "Leave?"

Sands frowned. That's not what he meant. "No, just… I… don't…" He stopped his babbling, then shook his head, no.

_How many types of crazy must I look like right now?_

"Are you alright?" the voice repeated again.

One arm propped up on his knee, head supported in his hand, Sands snorted. "Oui, Senor. Don't I look pretty as a fuckin' picture?"

He looked up towards where he imagined the man to be, and just like that he saw the man's face in his mind. Yet the name continued to elude his fractured thoughts. He dropped his hand to the mattress and shifted on the bed until his legs dangled over the side, his feet contacting the wood floor beneath him.

"Where am I?" Sands asked.

"My house," the man answered. Sands gritted his teeth, about to ask who the fuck he was, when the man continued. "You've been here for over a day. Don't you remember?"

Sands crooked his neck towards the man. His speech was slightly stilted; not enough for most people to notice, but then again, he wasn't most people.

_Follow the yellow brick road, amigo._

It came back in a flash, starting with the sound of a cell phone ringtone playing _Somewhere Over The Rainbow. _His relief at this realization was overwhelming but short lived.

He was Sheldon Jeffrey Sands, and Eric Cameron was lying through his perfect, pearly white teeth.

And he needed a goddamn cigarette.

"Round and round we go, where we stop, I don't know," Sands intoned, searching his pockets for a pack of cigarettes. His stomach lurched unpleasantly. Shit. The nausea was still there too. Not finding his cigarettes, he gave up the search and asked bluntly. "Why are you lying, Cam?"

No fancy words, no false façade, no games, just a simple and straight forward question to a man he had slowly been learning to trust. He sat there blind, without a weapon, without a cigarette or a tequila and lime, even without his sharp tongue… and waited for his answer.

If Cam lied now, it was over.

By the silence that lingered after, he could tell he'd left Cam stunned by the simplicity of the question. Sands waited with his newly discovered patience, patience that was quickly being taxed as the seconds ticked by. The rhythm of the old clock in the bedroom sounding louder and more irritating with every tick, he stood up and moved so that he was face to face with Cam.

Well, he hoped that was the case. It was hard to say for sure.

"I… I don't, uh…" Cam started.

Sands tilted his head down slightly. If he'd had eyes, he would have been looking at Cam over his sunglasses. It had the desired effect, ending Cam's stammering immediately.

Cam didn't attempt to speak again, words apparently beyond him.

"No answer, Eric?" Sands asked into the silence.

He wished Cam would say something. He could only judge the man by the sound of his voice; the tone, the pauses, the pitch. But when Cam was quiet Sands had nothing.

He could only guess at the emotions playing across Cam's face right now, what his eyes were betraying, his body language giving away.

He could only guess. He didn't know. He was – as he would always be – forever in the dark.

Sands clucked his tongue, bringing his chin up again as he adjusted his sunglasses and stood tall. They stood there like that, motionless until one last tick from that goddamn clock was as much as Sands' could tolerate hearing. He spat a single word at Cam, before brushing past him and moving towards the door.

"Coward."

That was all Sands said as he stepped out into the hall. He was excruciatingly hot, and his stomach roiled. Feeling his way along the left wall he came to the door he knew was there and stepped inside.

Cam must have been rooted to the spot, because even as Sands closed the bathroom door he hadn't heard a sound from him. Finding the toilet, Sands promptly heaved the last of his stomach's contents into the bowl, collapsing onto the floor when he was through.

Toilet paper roll within reach, Sands tore off a piece and wiped his mouth, tossing it into the toilet and flushing. Standing on shaky legs, he gripped the countertop as he stood up completely. His head was pounding, his right thigh achy and weak, still recovering from the bullet that had ripped through it. He stood there speculating what the hell his reflection must look like now and the mental image wasn't welcoming.

He was sure he looked just like the monster he'd slowly become. But there was no turning back now, was there?

He heard Cam in the living room turning off the TV. Apparently Cam had uprooted himself and made some sort of decision.

Sands reached up and pulled off his sunglasses, placing them on the countertop. It only took a second to find the faucet, and he turned it on and washed his face with cold water. His fingers brushed against day old stubble, and he knew he looked like hell. Heck… he felt like hell. He needed to get home, take a shower, and get sleep that didn't require a large dose of drugs and him going bat-fucking insane beforehand.

Water still running, his hands forming a cup under the flow, he called out, "You didn't come to save me in Mexico, did you? You just came to fatten me up like a Christmas goose."

He rinsed out the taste of bile from his mouth as best he could and splashed his face one more time. Twisting the faucet and turning off the water, he fumbled for a towel and found one just as Cam answered. Now Cam was just outside the door.

"You know that isn't true." The defeat was clear in his voice and Sands knew he would admit his guilt. Good ol' Cam, always easy to manipulate.

The thought made him frown, and his own reaction gave him pause.

_You've just done one Broadway show too many. Need a cat nap, that's all. Show must go on, but no one said it had to be today._

Shaking himself from his inner musings he patted his face dry and replaced his sunglasses. His fingers raked through greasy hair, a last ditch effort at trying to look halfway human before opening the door wide. He heard Cam's breath catch in his throat, surprised by the sudden move. Sands disregarded the conversation altogether, asking instead, "You got a smoke, Goody-Two-Shoes?"


	9. Breaking Rules

**Chapter 9 – Breaking Rules**

Cam watched as Sands trailed his hand along the wall, finding his way into the kitchen and taking a seat at the table. His body was shaking as he almost fell into a chair, and his face was pale and taut.

_Cigarettes._

"Hold on. I think Megan has some cigarettes around here somewhere," Cam said, returning to the bedroom and looking in the wood box on the dresser. Opening it, he spotted Megan's stash and took out the pack and lighter, returning to the kitchen a minute later. He tossed both items onto the table in front of Sands, who wasted no time in putting them to use.

Cam parked himself in the chair next to Sands, feeling wary. The late morning sun beat through the sliding glass door in front of him, and he shielded his eyes from the brightness as he watched Sands light up.

The man in front of him was like a ticking time bomb. It was clear to see… hell, it looked as if Sands himself could feel it. Luckily the cigarettes had a calming effect. Cam could see Sands' body relax as he took a long drag.

The cigarettes were lights… Sands wouldn't be too thrilled when he realized it.

Cam rose to get them both a glass of water, remembering Sands' hoarse voice and feeling a bit parched himself. Neither of them said anything, even when he came back to the table and placed the glass in front of Sands. He sat on the opposite side of the table, his back now in the sun.

One thing was for certain. He'd fucked up big time. He wondered how badly Sands was going to make him pay for it.

* * *

Sands took the moment of silence to enjoy his cigarette. The sound of a glass being planted on the table in front of him forced him back to the present, and he realized Cam had sat back down. Funny thing was he didn't take the same chair as before.

Silently Sands felt out the glass, and quickly downed the ice cold water. Despite the slight brain freeze from its temperature, the water and nicotine seemed to help him focus again. Setting down the empty glass, he leaned back in his chair and tried his best to look as if he was observing Cam.

In a strange way he was, just not with his eyes.

The sun's warmth no longer hit him directly as it had before, and it dawned on him that Cam was now sitting with his back to it.

_Ah, and I do love me a dog named Bingo. Sun must have been in his eyes._

Sands took another drag. As happy as he was that his powers of observation were alive and well, he wasn't overjoyed about detecting that particular fact.

He cocked his head to the side as a bitter smile graced his lips. "Bright out, today?" he drawled, regretting the words the instant they shot out of his mouth.

"Uh, yeah," Cam admitted awkwardly. He seemed surprised at getting caught, taking a drink from his water to keep from saying more.

Sands tilted his head back, exhaling the smoke from his lungs before chuckling. "Sun's so bright I gotta wear shades," he crooned. The chuckle turned into a harsh laugh. Another hit off his cigarette stopped his laughter, and he commented, mostly to himself, "Never thought I'd miss _that_."

They were both quiet after his outburst. After a few minutes Cam got up to refill their glasses. Sands pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to force his mind out of the sinkhole it was being pulled into. It would only lead to a depression that was getting harder and harder to return from.

Worst of all, he couldn't believe he'd let that shit tumble out of his mouth in front of Cam. He took another drag, the cigarette nearly finished.

Cam obviously sensed his embarrassment, because he was certainly staying clear. He heard the coffee pot start to percolate behind him.

He wasn't sure how much time passed before he realized what he was smoking. "Fucking Marlboro light shit," Sands grumbled, stubbing his spent cigarette out on the table. He remembered the hunk of wood; it wasn't nice enough to worry about.

"I'll tell Megan you disapprove," Cam said from somewhere behind him.

"Be sure you do. That ought to brighten her day." Sands didn't waste any time lighting up another cigarette as Cam returned. The first one had barely taken the edge off. Sands tossed the lighter on the table and it skittered across the tabletop before sliding to a stop.

"Did you just put out your last cigarette on the table?" Cam asked indignantly. He must have just noticed the stub smoldering into his wooden masterpiece.

Sands just hiked an eyebrow as Cam got up, opened a cabinet, and came back a minute later with a small plate. He set it down with little grace before plopping back down in his chair.

"Jeff…"

"I may need your expertise," Sands smoothly interrupted. He had no intention of letting Cam start a conversation he didn't want to have.

Cam only took a moment to switch gears. "Of course. But Jeff… what the hell happened?"

He scoffed at the question, blowing smoke out through his nose. "You're asking me? I don't even know how the hell I got here, much less how I received a first class ticket on the crazy train."

An exasperated sigh was all Cam gave, and Sands inclined his head towards where he heard the coffee pot percolating earlier. "Coffee's done, Cheech."

Cam got up and poured them both a cup. "What's the last thing you remember?" Cam tried again, coming back to the table.

Sands took another puff. A cup was placed in front of him, and he waited until Cam sat back down before answering. He thought back, his mind much clearer than it had been minutes earlier. It was a little bit surprising that he remembered with little effort.

"Visiting Cecelia's Doc."

"At Windhill?"

Sands nodded. "We shot the breeze, but after that…" Sands breathed in deeply, and then waved the hand clutching the cigarette casually. "It's like I fell down a rabbit hole drunk and blind." Sands rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand, before grunting in frustration. "They're controlling me somehow. Tugging on my strings and making me dance." The image of what he'd look like as a marionette popped into his mind, and he chased it away. "I have to find the trigger."

"Trigger?" Cam asked, lost. "Jeff, you have to tell me what's going on in a way that I can understand. Otherwise I can't help."

"I don't speak Klingon; it might be hard. Besides, who said anything about help?" He pointed at Cam and shook his finger disapprovingly. "An hour ago you were on their side, Pinocchio."

The words may have been light, but the weight behind them was anything but.

He heard Cam heave a sign and shift uncomfortably in his chair. "I was never really on their side. I simply… thought I knew what was important."

Sands waited, and when Cam didn't continue, gestured impatiently. "Care to continue?"

"It turns out that I'm just not concerned about keeping my job anymore."

Smirking, Sands asked, "Looking to go out with a little panache, then?"

Cam laughed quietly. "You got it."

"Oh goody, my specialty," Sands said flippantly, tapping the ash off his cigarette and onto the plate in front of him.

"Yeah… so I've heard."

"The trigger could be anything," he began, turning serious as he groped around carefully for his cup of coffee. His fingertips touched the hot mug and he wrapped his hands around it. Dragging it closer to him, he continued. "Could be a conditioned word, could be some sort of serum…" He took a sip of coffee before raising the mug a little as if in salute. "…perhaps ingested. Maybe even a sound frequency or implanted microchip."

He set down the mug and grimaced. "What, no tequila?"

Cam waved his hand impatiently at Sands, realization dawning immediately after that Sands couldn't see it. "Sorry, no. Now you mind getting back on track and telling me how the Company is ruining your life?"

Sands took another puff of his cigarette. The possibilities were endless. "Hey, maybe the trigger was a radioactive hamster bite!" Sands mocked, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "I don't know. I just know they've found a golden ticket and I need to get it back before they go through a grand tour of the chocolate factory."

"Wait. Are you talking about mind control?" Cam asked, disbelieving.

Sands head collapsed into his hands, elbows propped up on the table. "What do you think I was doing during my time on the PANDORA project? Finding a cure for Alzheimer's?"

Cam sat back, probably stunned, the chair groaning from the pressure. Sands couldn't blame him; PANDORA was hush-hush, talk about it and you disappear like Houdini sort of shit.

But what did Sands care now? It was supposed to have been shut down when he left the project. His career wasn't following the yellow brick road and the wizard was about to revoke his brain.

Sands still had his head in his hands when Cam asked, "Is that what happened to Cecelia?" and was thankful his face was obscured. He couldn't help the grimace at the mention of her name; she was frequently popping up like a bad penny.

Although his first instinct in life was to lie, Sands thought better of it. Cam was a necessary pawn in this game, and the pawn needed to be moved right away. Resigned to the truth, he lifted his head, sitting back in his chair. "Yeah," he said at last, fingering his coffee mug and waiting for the inevitable explosion from Cam. It didn't take long.

"You let them use her?" he accused, clear disgust in his tone. He even stood up, as if angry enough to assault the blind officer sitting at his kitchen table.

"You wouldn't hit a guy with glasses, would you?" Sands said with fake innocence.

Cam laughed disbelievingly, and Sands had to admit that he was both amused and angry at Cam's assumption. As Cam strode past him and towards the doorway Sands snagged his elbow. When Cam stopped walking Sands let go.

As Sands slowly rose to his feet, Cam didn't budge.

"I know you're a sick son of a bitch," Cam stated, furious. "But how could you experiment on your own wife?"

Sands head snapped towards his voice, his anger rising before he could get a handle on it. "I never said I did."

That seemed to stop Cam's anger in its tracks. "What?"

"What sort of loony-toon would I have to be to dump that load of bull on my doorstep? And for what end? Some sick, clinical, psychological hard-on before they toted her off in a straight-jacket?"

Cam must have been taken aback by his tone, because he wasted no time in trying to backpedal. "I didn't mean…"

"Fuck you," Sands hissed, cutting him off as he snatched the pack of cigarettes off the table and pulled another one out of its paper prison. He was quick to hunt down the lighter and fire it up. He forced himself to calm down as he took a long drag. Holy hell in a hand basket, this was tough.

_Oh course Cam thinks you were involved. Why wouldn't you be?_

"I should have seen it," he finally continued. Worn out, he leaned against the table as he spoke. "By the time I got wind of what was going on she was already mayor of crazy-ville."

He took another puff of his cigarette as his sunglasses slid down his nose. He hastily corrected them before continuing. "They upset the balance, but before it was all said and done I made sure the project was as fucked as she was," he said, a millisecond smile flashing across his face before it morphed back to serious.

It didn't take long for Cam to put the pieces together. "You called them out."

Sands dipped his head once in confirmation, sauntering unsteadily past Cam, into the living room.

"No wonder they're pissed," Cam said finally, following after him.

"Stick with me and you'll make friends into enemies in no time," Sands drawled. "Bet you can guess what happened next."

Cam only needed to think for a moment. "Mexico," Cam stated, finally. It wasn't a question, just a confirmation of the truth he'd learned after years of speculation.

Sands just nodded, now standing by the front window, looking for all the world like he was staring outside.

"Goddamn man. I'm sorry." To his credit, Cam actually sounded it too.

It wasn't what Sands wanted to hear, and he ignored the comment altogether. "Well, the tea and strumpets were great but it's about time for all the good little boys and girls to go home to bed."

"Then what?"

He considered Cam's question as he felt the light breeze on his clammy skin. "It's time I balanced some things out."

Cam groaned, and Sands couldn't help the small smile that crept onto his lips.

"Why do you have to be so enigmatic?" Cam asked.

"Here I thought I was being straight-forward."

Cam scoffed at that, and then quickly sobered. He was silent for a minute, and Sands couldn't help but wonder what was on his mind. "Got something picking at your brain?"

Cam inhaled deeply, and took a step closer to Sands. "Is Ava really dead?"

Sands took another pondering drag, curious about the answer to that question himself. "I don't know," he finally admitted softly.

"What do you mean you don't know?"

Sands shook his head, upset by his own doubt. How could he explain that he wasn't sure it was her because he couldn't see her? Or that his head was so screwed up right now he wasn't sure he even fucking lived the scenario in the first place?

"Things aren't always as they appear," he said cagily, instead. "Now… take me home before I report you for kidnapping."


	10. Surprise Guest

**Chapter 10 – Surprise Guest**

Cam pulled his car up to the curb, glancing at Sands nervously. There was no doubt that things were off with him, but then again, they had been since he'd returned from Mexico.

Sands had no choice but to rediscover himself now. He was in the middle of a transition that would either make him or break him.

It was clear to Cam that Sands had come to the realization that he would have to change. He was irreversibly blind, and no matter what he did, that fact would never change. Add to that the CIA's determination to bring him down in any way possible and Cam wasn't so sure that Sands was going to make it through. After escaping cruel torture at the hands of Dr. Guevara and being shot to hell, Sands was slowly being destroyed at the hands of his own agency. Worst of all, it was an agency powerful enough to get away with it. He wasn't sure even the great Officer Sands could stop it.

Sands produced his cane, turning towards Cam. "I'm in need of a little Intel," Sands said, his tone nonchalant. "And my sources tell me you're just the man for the job."

Cam smiled a little. "Well it is **my** specialty," he said with more confidence than he felt.

Sands nodded. It was clear he'd set his mind to something… had come up with some sort of plan. He wasn't going to divulge the information, but it was a relief to Cam that he was motivated again. "I need the home address of Dr. Alex Beck, and any other dirty little morsels of tasty information you can dig up."

"Cecelia's psychiatrist?" Cam asked, startled.

"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure," he answered coolly as he opened the door.

"Alright, Jeff… I'll see what I can find."

Stepping out of the car, Sands extended his cane. He leaned back in, smirking. "Uh, Cam?"

"Yeah?"

"Make it snappy," he instructed. He didn't like the hesitance he heard in Cam's voice. "There's no time for your habitual pussy-footing." Slamming the door he turned and began making his way slowly to his apartment building, successfully securing the last word.

"Asshole," Cam muttered, putting the car in gear and stepping on the gas.

* * *

In the apartment's lobby Sands felt a vibration in his left pocket, immediately followed by the old James Bond theme from _Goldfinger_.

_Ah, the Company must be following up on their prize catch. _Sands thought with disgust, digging the cell phone out of his pocket and flipping it open.

"May I take your order?" he asked with sickeningly fake pleasantness.

"Sands?" a woman asked on the other end, and it only took him a moment to figure out it was the lady who set up all his appointments at OMS.

"Who else?" Sands queried. Unable to properly focus on the sounds around him to navigate the darkness and the conversation on the phone at the same time he located the small lobby's waiting area and took a seat.

"I'm calling to remind you of your appointment with Dr. Edwards at nine am tomorrow morning," she continued. He couldn't remember her name. Didn't care.

"So nice of you to call, Sweet-thing. Makes it easier for me to cancel."

He didn't want to deal with OMS now. There was a lot to be done, and dicking around with some two-bit psychiatrist was not high on his list of priorities.

"This isn't a request, Mr. Sands."

Frowning, Sands messaged his forehead, the makings of a splitting headache pushing against his frontal lobe. So he was officially demoted from 'officer' to 'mr.' now?

"Oh, I think I just heard a threat," he drawled.

"No, Mr. Sands. Policy. You've already missed several DLS classes in a row, and your first two appointments with Dr. Edwards. If you miss this next appointment we will discontinue treatment. We don't have time for no-shows."

Sands gritted his teeth, his hand tightly clutching the chair arm underneath it. Shit. He had to go, and he knew it. If he refused to show and they stopped his treatment at OMS he would be terminated from the Company, no questions asked. That didn't fit into his grand scheme.

"Well when you put it like that, I guess I'll be there bright-eyed and bushy-tailed," he said at last, then chuckled. "In a manner of speaking."

"We'll see you tomorrow, 9 o'clock."

The line went dead and Sands snapped his cell phone shut, hastily returning to his feet and shoving the cell back into his pocket.

He climbed the stairs, every muscle aching and dog-tired. He found his apartment door and tucked his cane away, searching for his keys. It took him a minute to find them, and once he did he slipped them into the lock. Opening the door, he stepped inside and immediately shut it. Leaning heavily against the door, he just stood there for a moment and listened. The apartment was quiet, the air stuffy.

Taking off his coat, he hung it up in the nearby closet and made a bee-line for his bedroom. He needed a scalding hot shower and sleep. If he didn't get some rest and mental clarity now, he'd be fucked. Well, even more fucked. He knew better than most the signs of psychological burnout, and he was displaying and feeling firsthand every single one of them. Heck, he may even be inventing some new ones.

* * *

His alarm screeched to life far too early for his liking, but as he rolled out of bed and stretched out his stiff muscles he could feel the positive effects of a good nights' rest, as clichéd as it sounded.

He took a shower, cleaned himself up and slipped his ever-present sunglasses on. It wouldn't do to show up to OMS looking like something the cat dragged in a week ago.

Getting dressed for the day he made his way to the living room and cracked open a window, letting out the stale air. Despite the crispness of the winter breeze, the draft was pleasant for the time being and helped his senses awaken and sharpen up for the coming day.

He shuffled into the kitchen. An involuntary chill tingled up his spine as he passed the fridge; the contents of the freezer still haunting him.

_That show is still in rehearsal. No need to buy tickets yet._

He sighed as he scavenged up the necessary things to make a strong pot of coffee. He was just managing to pull himself back together and couldn't dwell on what was still in the freezer. He had a psychiatrist to deal with, a mentally ill wife to find, and a double-dealing weasel of a doctor take care of.

_All in a day's work, _he thought wryly as he dumped some ground coffee into the filter and turned on the coffee pot. He stood there next to it, listening as the water boiled and filtered through the machine, draining into the pot below. Steam hit the left side of his body, causing an odd sensation of hot and cold. He walked back into the living room. His body shivered suddenly as he shut the window. As the window latched shut, he froze.

_That's it… that's the key. The physical._

He smiled. Perhaps he couldn't yet stop PsyOps from using their trigger on him again; not yet. But he might be able to negate its effectiveness on him until a more permanent solution could be achieved. The one sense all of PANDORA's incarnations and variations couldn't conquer was touch. Sight, smell and sound could be produced in your mind readily, but touch was more elusive. It was a weakness in PANDORA that they tried to unlock while he was on the project, and they hadn't come up with a solution.

He thought back to his hazy recollections of his visit to Windhill as he retraced his steps back to the coffee pot and poured himself a mug. He couldn't remember much and he probably never would. What he did remember was he was there to see Cecelia, and he thought he had. Then there was the disconnect; Cecelia's touch that hadn't felt right, voices that were oddly internal in nature.

They still had all the same problems he'd been trying to solve, it seemed. Perhaps study and testing hadn't continued as aggressively as he thought.

He took a swig of the piping hot coffee; it burned his mouth and throat, but to him it felt fucking fantastic because it felt real.

He reclined against the counter, honing in on one of the few things he remembered from his temporary trip to la-la-land; her touch. It had been impossible to pin-point what was wrong at the time, his mind too scrambled to decipher what was amiss.

Now, as he thought back, it was clear. It was like… his mind _told_ him she'd touched him, and not like he'd _felt _her touch.

A knock on the door caused him to shift his head towards the sound out of habit. He sipped at his coffee, in no hurry to answer. The revelations he'd uncovered were calming to his stressed state of mind.

The second knock was the same as the first, but the third knock that echoed through his apartment was a little harder and more insistent.

He'd called Cam before his shower to see if he could drop him off at his nine o'clock appointment, and Cam had grudgingly agreed. Although it seemed a little early yet, the impatient person on the other side was most likely him.

"Yeah, yeah," he called, making his way to the door cautiously. With a hot cup of coffee in his hand he preferred to avoid any unknown obstructions in his path to the front door. Another knock sounded as Sands dodged the corner of his sofa. "Don't get your panties in a bunch," he called out, loud enough for the person to hear, as he closed the distance between himself and the door and grasped the doorknob.

'_And if it's not Cam? _' his paranoid mind asked.

_Well, I always have the hot cup of coffee. _

He silently thanked his favorite teacher at the Farm for that little golden nugget of spy craft as he opened the door. "Hasn't anyone told you patience is a virtue?" Sands asked into the silence in front of him.

"As a matter of fact, I believe I told you that," said a deep and familiar voice that instantly left him at a loss for words. It was an occurrence so rare that it usually only happened once every ten years or so.

He could feel the shock begin to show on his face, and he quickly replaced it with a mask of indifference. He was sure he didn't fool the man in front of him, however.

Sands scoffed, not moving to let him in. "Then perhaps you ought to practice what you _preach_," Sands said, his tone like acid as he said the last word.

"We need to talk, Jeffery."

"Abyssus abyssum invocate."Sands cocked an eyebrow, and swallowed a healthy dose of coffee. "We've never felt the need to chit-chat before, so why start now?"

"Cecelia, for one."

Sands gripped his mug tighter, breathing in and out through his nose. He wondered if OMS contacted him about his 'condition' or if this was simply about Cecelia and the package he'd sent him months ago. It was most likely the latter, but he was paranoid about the possibility of the former. "What are you expecting, a confession? I've never been the type, Father."

The silence stretched, and the man shifted his weight uneasily before finally admitting quietly, with a sigh, "How well I know. Will you please let me in, son?"

"No," Sands replied immediately, still standing in the middle of the doorway, blocking entry. "And if you call me that again, I'll silence you for good," he said, deadly serious. "I've never been that much to you before so there isn't any point in hopping on that bandwagon this late in the game."

"Jeffrey…"

"I have appointments to keep, business to attend to… not a good time for a tete-a-tete."

"I can't take no for an answer. There are things that need to be –"

Sands cut him off by shutting the door in dear ol' dad's face, effectively silencing him mid-sentence. Sands locked it to accentuate his point, before taking another sip of coffee and listening intently. His father said and did nothing at first, then after a lengthy silence finally spoke.

"We'll talk tonight." Then, he moved away from the door. Sands exhaled a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.

"Don't count on it old man," Sands muttered to himself, taking a seat on the sofa and depositing his mug on the coffee table. He inclined his head back and willed himself to relax again. Despite his words, he knew in his gut he'd have to face his father again soon.

The next time, there might be no hiding what he'd become.

_Weak._

His father would be so proud… proven right after all these years.

Sands remained on the couch, nearly motionless, for at least ten minutes before what his father had said truly sank in.

_Cecelia…_

He sat up abruptly, his foot kicking the coffee table as he came to the realization that his father might just be able to deliver exactly what he needed.

_Access to Cecelia. _

If his father could get Cecelia transferred out of the viper pit she was currently in then he'd have the access to her he needed to find out about PANDORA. He couldn't do it himself; not without a lot of unwanted attention. However it was likely the Company might let his father take control of her, if simply for the fact that it would mean Sands no longer had it. The Company would see his father as a pawn who would be easy to manipulate and bypass if need be. As a bonus, she might even be less guarded than she currently was, at least for a short span of time.

Sands snatched up his mug and downed the rest of his coffee in a single swallow. Another knock on his door sounded, and Cam's voice immediately followed. "Hey, you ready or what?"

In better spirits, Sands pondered the wonders of perception. Thinking of his father as a useful tool rather than an unwanted annoyance eliminated _almost_ all of the dread he was feeling at their next meeting. There was still that underlying disgrace of discovery… the thought of his father being privy to his blindness caused a well of anxiety that could not be so easily erased. But perhaps even that could be used to his advantage, much as he hated it.

He opened the door and no doubt Cam looked as irritated as he sounded. "You say I'm slow?"

"You bet your bippy I do." Sands opened the closet door, grabbed his coat and slipped it on. He didn't take out his cane as he closed the door behind him, instead following the sound of Cam's footsteps a couple of paces in front of him. If his old man was still around, watching, he didn't want to let the cat out of the bag quite yet.

Sands followed Cam out of the apartment building, the cold hitting him full force as freezing drizzle struck his face. He buttoned up his coat and dug out the leather gloves he had tucked away in his pocket. He slid them on, his mind harkening back to a time when he hadn't put them on because of the cold but because a young Mexican kid handed them to him before he went out to make his final stand.

Funny, Sands felt like nothing had changed since that day. Only now his final stand wouldn't be with guns, but with his talent for a good mind fuck. The target of his revenge was no longer the Barillo cartel's goons, but the Company that he'd given everything to willingly.

It had been willingly. He could admit that now. The Company gave him power and opened the door to a freedom to do whatever he needed to do to achieve his objective. He'd have killed to have that sort of control, and in point of fact, did just that. That sort of power didn't come without a hefty price, and his time to pay the piper had arrived tenfold, and far earlier in his career than he'd have wished.

Before Mexico he'd naively believed in his own ability to dodge the piper… to escape with the power and the control without any debt to be paid.

_Guess you have to grow up sometime, huh hotshot?_

Sands got in Cam's car and rubbed his hands together as Cam started the engine.

Well he'd paid the piper. Now it was time to get his life back, and it was establishing itself to be the most difficult mission he'd ever been assigned.

Enjoying the warmth that blasted out of Cam's heater vents, he attempted to dry off his face with a sleeve. The effect was not exactly what he was hoping for, the damp coat sleeve only wetting his face further.

"There's some Kleenex in the glove," Cam said, startling him. Cam had been particularly quiet this morning and Sands thought he might know why.

Opening the glove compartment Sands rooted around in its contents until he found a travel size Kleenex pack and pulled one out. He ignored his face, which was mostly dry now from the blasting heat, and instead removed his sunglasses and wiped off the lenses.

After he replaced his sunglasses and tossed the Kleenex he couldn't say why the hell he'd bothered to wipe them off in the first place. It wasn't like it mattered… wasn't like a smudged pair of sunglasses was going to bother him… not anymore.

_Old habits die hard._

He sighed, and directed his attentions to his seemingly reluctant partner in crime. "Well Cam, I'm off to see the wizard. You got anything you'd like me to tell him?"

"He's a fraud, you know."

"Even frauds can be all powerful. Stop stalling."

"Sorry, I learned from the best," Cam said dryly. He was definitely not in the best of moods. "I was planning on looking into that today."

Sands could tell by his voice that something was bothering him about the request. "Any particular reason why you're going about this at a tortoise's pace?"

"When you get the information, what are you going to do, Jeff?"

Ah. So that _was_ it.

_He's probably frightened that I'm going to lose it… maybe even kill the bastard. _

Wasn't like his worry was unwarranted either. Nevertheless he'd have to assuage Cam's doubts if he hoped to get the information he needed on dear Doctor Beck.

"Don't look so scared, Cam," he said with a healthy amount of sarcasm. "It makes people suspicious."

"I just…"

"Can't deal with what I might do?" Sands cut in easily.

Silence, some rustling of clothes that sounded like it could have been a nod but it was impossible for him to tell for sure.

Cam took a turn a bit faster than his normally cautious driving would allow for and Sands had to brace himself so that he didn't knock his head into the window.

"I won't kill him," Sands finally said, sounding thoroughly convincing and ever so sincere. He wasn't sure that he meant it. "I might get the hook and force him off the stage," he continued easily. "But that's what happens when you finish a lousy performance."

Cam didn't rush his answer, but Sands was secretly pleased when it came. "Alright Jeff, I'll get the information… but you better not be lying to me."

Cam slowed, pulling into a parking spot as Sands answered with a smile, "Cross my heart…" He was wise enough not to finish that sentence with 'and hope to die' as Cam killed the engine and took the keys out of the ignition.

Despite not seeing the gaze Cam had leveled on him, he could certainly feel it. He still marveled at that mysterious sixth sense, having noticed it more now that another much more dominant one had been taken away.

"I'll have it by tonight," Cam said at last.

Sands smiled. "Good boy."

* * *

Latin Translations

Abyssus abyssum invocate. – Hell calls hell.


	11. Mind Over Matter

**Chapter 11 – Mind over Matter**

Cam, good seeing-eye dog that he was, brought him as far as the shrink's waiting room before taking off. Sands found a chair and took a seat, tapping his cane on the floor distractedly as he waited in the empty room.

The contempt he felt even being here was only tempered by the fact that he was curious as to who they'd assigned to probe his mind. Did this Dr. Edwards know what they were getting into, and if so, was their purpose to help or hinder?

Oh, and his last assignment to Cam before he stepped inside OMS? Thoroughly check out Dr. Edwards. He sure as shit wasn't going to assume Edwards was one of the good guys.

_Tap. Tap._

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

Sands stopped, realizing he was making noise just for the sake of hearing something. The room was so quiet that he was starting to think it was sound proof. Not unheard of; they all dealt with sensitive information and it wouldn't do to have the wrong ears overhear.

A door opened to his left, light jazz music played softly in the background, and he gripped his cane tighter while turning his head toward the sound.

"Sands," a woman said, and he nodded once as she walked over. The woman smelled of vanilla perfume; no doubt it was an attempt to mask the lingering scent of cigarette smoke. Both her voice and scent seemed vaguely familiar as he tried to recall if he'd met her before. "I'm ready when you are," she said, a tinkle of jewelry catching his attention.

He stood, smirking. "Time to get this show on the road," he said, sweeping his hand in the direction he'd heard her come from. "After you."

She chuckled good-naturedly while leading the way and the nagging suspicion that she wasn't a complete stranger was strong. He couldn't identify where their paths had crossed, but they had.

He sat down and took note when he didn't hear her do the same. Instead she leaned up against what he assumed was her desk. "Never thought I'd see you again, Sands," she said after a moment, amusement in her voice.

Tilting his head in contemplation he kept up his bored front, concealing his frustration. "I take it we've met, then?" he asked, his voice neutral as he leaned back in the chair.

"You're a tough student to forget, Slick."

This time he didn't bother to hide his surprise as it finally clicked. She'd been a teacher at the Farm. He'd taken two of her advanced psychology classes in his final year. She was in her forties then and looked like a tall, street-hardened, aging version of Judy Garland. She was in her fifties now and he doubted that she'd lost her touch. Her last name was different than it had been at the Farm. She must have gotten married, or perhaps divorced.

She was sharp. Playing her for a fool wouldn't be a breeze.

_A good flexing of the mind, then._

"Made an impression, did I?" he asked at last. With the music playing in the background, the lack of words was less uncomfortable. He was grateful for that despite it being a trick of her design.

"Oh, I never forget a student who aces my finals. Only two other students have ever done that." Chuckling, she admitted, "Blew the curve to hell."

Her confession left him smirking. "So you're assigned to make everything hunky-dory again in the world of Jeffrey Sands?"

"Please," she responded easily. "We both know it's not as simple as that."

He heard the desk creak as she stood, moving to her seat behind the desk. "So, tell me your plans."

Sands sat nonplussed. "What?" As an opener, that was one heck of an advanced question.

She clasped her hands together, a bracelet dragging along the wooden desk as she did so. "What are you planning to do when you're reinstated," she said, rephrasing the question.

A calculating eyebrow rose. "Shouldn't I be concentrating on my recovery?"

"You seem well enough to me," she said smoothly.

"I hope to become the best damn field officer the Company will ever see," he drawled, but there was challenge in his voice. "Set 'em up, _watch_ 'em fall."

"Good," was all she said, demonstrating that two could play his game. She knew that a blind field officer was impossible, but wasn't going to take his bait. Damn.

"Nice to know my _teach_ approves."

A gentle rustle of clothes was the only answer, and again he had trouble deciphering the sound. Was it a nod, a shrug or a simple shifting of her body? The uncertainty of her answer causing irritation to build, he gripped his cane firmly.

"You know as well as I that you don't give a shit about my approval," she said frankly. "But you do need my signature."

"True," Sands said shortly. It was pointless to deny the truth she'd laid out.

"How long you come here is up to you, Jeff," she stated. "You spin me around and this'll take longer. I don't care. I'm here five days a week either way, so if you see me for a month or for a year it makes little difference to me."

"I would lose out on all the fun of frustrating you."

"No you wouldn't. You're going to frustrate me no matter what you do."

Sands laughed at that, folding up his cane and tucking it away.

"Your plans?" she prodded, the jazz music still playing unobtrusively in the background. He needed to start playing music in his apartment. It broke through the darkness in a way that was unexpected and relaxing.

"I thought I'd return to my roots," he said at last.

"Ah," she exclaimed, apparently thankful for the honesty. "Thank God for small miracles." She stood and walked over to the corner where the music was playing, turning the volume down. Much to his annoyance, its absence disturbed him. "So, you want to return to PsyOps?"

"Yeah," was his short, unhelpful answer. "What's your first name?" he asked, out of the blue. He couldn't remember it, and wanted to derail her concentration as she had done to him.

Returning from the stereo she sat back down. "It's Sandra."

He pulled out his packet of cigarettes, tapping one out and offering it to her. No point in asking if smoking was permitted. He was going to light up either way. "Smoke?" he asked, an unlit cigarette between his lips.

"I don't," she shot back and Sands couldn't stop the smile as he withdrew the proffered pack and lit his cancer stick. Her answer was too quick and forceful to be believable, even if he hadn't smelled the smoke hidden under her fragrance.

"Ah, you better watch yourself, Sugar. I have a nose for liars." Tapping his nose he paused to take a drag off his cigarette before motioning towards hers. "Yours is likely to grow."

"Shrewd as ever," she said, her way of acknowledging his accuracy.

"Doesn't inspire a lot of confidence." Something on her desk slid towards him and he cocked his head in question.

"Ashtray," she answered. "I guess old habits die hard."

"Now I can't help but wonder if your nerves were rattled earlier today. Wouldn't be because of little ol' me, would it?"

"You give yourself a lot of credit, Slick."

Finding the ashtray he tapped his cigarette over it. "I always love a first-class mind-fuck," Sands drawled, returning to her earlier topic and reclining back in his chair. "So I think it's an excellent fit."

"Undoubtedly."

Simple, short and accepting answer… wasn't even any sign of disapproval in his choice of words. That made it hard for him to play off of. "I hear there's always a job opening for that sort of thing."

"What about teaching?" she asked, and her tone was so serious he couldn't help his reaction.

He barked out a good old-fashion hoot of amusement. After a solid half a minute he regained some composure, adjusting his sunglasses as he caught his breath. "For your sake I hope you're yanking my chain."

"I wasn't joking, but I'm happy you got a good laugh," she said, and he could hear her smile. "Just consider it an option."

"I did. What do you think got me rolling?"

"Why is it so funny to you?" she asked after a moment.

He scoffed at that and gestured to himself. "You can't seriously see me as a teacher, can you?"

"Let's see. I picture you terrorizing the student body while dumping heaps of information on them on a weekly basis. Sure I could. Actually, I'd love to see it."

"So would I, but there's no chance of that happening, now is there?"

"Hmm," she contemplated to herself. "Well you only can see what you want to see," she said after a minute.

He was well aware she was trying to rile him, but what really aggravated him was that it was working.

"I don't exactly have that luxury," he sniped.

_Shut up while you're ahead, fucker._

"Why not?" she asked, her nonchalant tone only serving to goad him further.

"Why not…" he murmured as a disbelieving laugh escaped his throat. The disbelief was over her ability to maneuver him into bringing the subject up himself, and he'd hopped onto the train so eagerly you'd think it was taking him to Candy Land.

He inhaled deeply, cigarette burning steadily down. Smoke filled his lungs and he held it there a moment before filtering it out through his nose. "You ever see the Wizard of Oz?"

A pause. The steady rhythm of her nails against the desk the only sound disturbing the silence. "Who hasn't? What about it?"

"Do you think the wizard hands out eyes?"

"Sands…"

"After all, he hands out brains," he finished, his voice betraying his bitterness. "You need one? Seeing as I'm on my way, I can ask him for you."

"Why don't you just say it?" she dared him.

He grimaced and stubbed out his cigarette angrily. He wasn't about to give her the satisfaction of saying what she wanted to hear. _'I'm blind.'_

"This doesn't need to be some epic battle, you know," she said when he didn't respond. "We both know what you need to talk about."

"I want to chit-chat about the theatre," he drawled, his tone returning to its detached norm.

"OK…" At last he heard it, an unsure tone, as if she was hesitant to let him wander off track.

"Why is it that people wander slowly into a theatre before a show starts, yet feel the need to rush out of the theatre the moment after the final bow?"

"Uh, I don't…"

Waving his hands animatedly he interrupted her. "Wrap your brain matter around it for two shakes of a stick. Shouldn't it be the other way around?"

There was a long pause this time, no readily available answer in her arsenal. He flashed a quick smile and pointed a finger in her direction. "Solve that one and we can really talk."

* * *

Sands sat in front of OMS on the edge of a large concrete planter, coat wrapped tightly around him as he smoked a fresh cigarette. He would have to buy a new pack on the way home, especially if he was going to pull off a prime time performance for his old man.

People bustled by to his left. OMS was always busy. There was never a shortage of messed up officers and families, after all. Waiting for his taxi, he wondered about this new shrink of his. Not only had OMS commandeered the coming Monday for another mind-meld, they'd also scheduled an appointment with an Oculoplastic surgeon to take another look at his eye sockets. Something, they said, he should have done a month ago.

The only small mercy received today was the news that he'd gotten out of the Disabled Living Skills class, at least for the time being. It was small consolation.

Three quick honks signaled his taxi, and he tossed his cigarette without bothering to put it out and climbed in. First stop, 7-11 for cigarettes. Second, his apartment. He directed the driver to the first location as he removed the cell phone from his pocket and called Cam.

"Any news on the witchy woman?" he asked, and Cam spared no grumpiness when asking what Sands meant. "The shrink."

"Oh," he paused, and some typing could be heard over the line. "She seems legit so far, but I need to go a bit deeper. It's only been an hour, you know."

"I need a clean sweep of my apartment."

"Haven't forgotten. I'll do that tomorrow. I'm sure you won't be surprised if I say I'm busy today."

"Well we're all busy little bees, full of stings, making honey day and night, aren't we honey?" Sands said in a sing-song, hanging up the cell.

Sands' thoughts switched to this morning's surprise guest. If his father was as predictable as he'd always been, he'd be back this afternoon. Despite the preaching on patience, his father had always been in short supply of that virtue.

Talking in the apartment was not an option. The risk of being overheard was too high. His father could not be exposed if he was to be any help at all. They'd have to go out.

Unfortunately that meant there would be no hiding his situation… but he was just fooling himself if he thought there was any real chance of hiding it in the first place, wasn't he?

* * *

The knock on the door came too early for his liking, yet waiting any longer would have been unbearable.

Sands opened the door, this time stepping out of the way to allow him entry. "You're like clockwork," he drawled, his father yet to say a single word.

"You're willing to talk to me now?"

Sands smirked and jerked a thumb into his apartment, motioning him to get inside so he could close the door. "Don't sound so shocked."

"You always did do the unexpected."

"Well it's expected of me," he replied smoothly. Sands closed the door as his father moved into the room and he had to remind himself that this was all nothing more than positioning a pawn on the chessboard… with luck, more than one. He turned to face his father. "Spit out whatever you came to spit out."

His father sighed, but had trouble forming words. Putting him on the spot. The man hadn't even sat down. They both stood there, facing each other, about ten feet apart. Sands didn't experience an urge to make him comfortable… actually his inclination was quite the opposite. "You traveled a long way to stand there gaping like a fish."

"We need to talk about Cecelia," his father managed.

Sands breathed a silent sigh of relief that he hadn't mentioned the package first. Fifty-fifty odds always made him edgy and letting his father choose the topic gave him just that. However, if there were bugs in his apartment he couldn't let anyone listening get suspicious. Letting his father lead the conversation was a good means to that end.

"What about her?" he asked, keeping a firm check on his emotions.

"She's in an insane asylum, and you don't even visit?"

Sands took note that his father was masking the anxiety he felt with an authoritative tone that didn't ring true. If the circumstances had been different he might have laughed. "I'm not her favorite person."

"That's clear. Jeff, I want control of her care."

"You going to pay for her out of the goodness of your heart? Padded cells don't come cheap."

"I have people who can look after her better than the cold place she's in now. Have you seen it?"

"Once," Sands said shortly, walking past his father and into the kitchen. He got out a glass and filled it straight from the tap. Thinking back to when he'd first had her committed he remembered his initial impression of the sanitarium; remote and impersonal. Weren't they all? He heard his father step into the kitchen just as he took a swig of lukewarm water.

"She's not getting any better there. I don't think she ever will."

_Isn't that the truth…_

Leaning against the counter, he honed in as best he could on his father's voice. He wondered how long it would take for his father to mention the sunglasses, or notice an irregular movement. Playing dumb Sands asked, "And how would you know that, _Father_ Sands? Did she confess to you?"

Silence.

Sands' eyebrow rose in question.

He finally answered. "In a way… I visited her a few days ago."

"Is she free of sin?" Sands mocked, setting down his glass.

"Jeffrey, that's enough! I want to help her, which is clearly more than you do."

"You have so much faith in me," Sands said easily, crossing his arms in front of him. "It's touching."

"You still haven't let it go."

Sands smiled bitterly at the elusive reference to the past. "I wouldn't trust you to be her guardian anymore than you trust me. Leaves us both up shit creek, doesn't it?"

"Why are you holding on to her so hard, when you clearly don't care?"

Now he had to tread softly, thankful for the acting skills that came so naturally. His father needed to believe him if any of his plan was to work. He let his body slouch, and rubbed his forehead tiredly. "Who says I don't care?" he asked at last, dropping any trace of sarcasm in his tone.

"Actions speak louder than words." There was a change in his father's tone; unsure, however slightly, of his own accusation.

"How clichéd."

"When was the last time you went to see her?" his father challenged.

"If you don't take it too literally, two days ago."

"What?" he asked, sounding downright befuddled. Sands couldn't say if it was because of his choice of words, or the fact that he'd gone so recently.

"They wouldn't let me see her. Said she was too upset from my last visit." Sands paused for dramatic effect, reaching one hand up to tweak his sunglasses. "Care to explain, Pops?"

Even he had to marvel at how easily the lies flowed off his tongue, especially to a priest who just so happened to be his father.

At the nothingness that answered, Sands snickered. "Caught you with your hand in the ol' cookie jar. Needless to say, you won't be getting those sweet treats. I made sure of that."

Sands damned the darkness, because he was sure the look on his father's face was priceless. Listening to him recover the power of speech and picturing the scene before him would have to do. Life was a bitch.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked at last.

"I should be asking you that question."

An aggravated huff came from his father and Sands smiled at the irritation he heard. They never could talk to each other, even before they'd cut ties. Probably what made said process so fucking easy.

"Windhill said I hadn't been to see her since she was committed. Hadn't even checked up," his father said, recovering his composure.

"True."

"What that says to me is that you didn't get her help, you got rid of her."

Sands frowned. "And if I did? What's it to you?"

Scoffing, his father walked over to him and set a heavy object down on the countertop a couple of feet away. His father unzipped something, and the rustle of papers followed.

_Christ. Don't let that be the envelope I sent him. _Sands thought frantically.

"Well, take it!" his father said a few seconds later. Realizing that his father was holding something out to him, he unfolded his arms and his hands brushed against the object.

He grasped it, lowering his head belatedly as if to see what the hell he'd been given. Sands said nothing as he pulled the object towards him and ran his right hand along the side of it. Turned out it was a thick book... or an album. Fan-fucking-tastic.

Probably noticing the grimace that had appeared on his normally neutral face, his father asked, "What's the matter with you?"

"What's this?" Sands asked, waving the mystery book in his father's view.

This time the silence was a lot longer than the normal 'you threw me for a loop' pause. It was far more uncomfortable, and Sands instinctively knew his father was finally putting the pieces together.

Proving his instincts right his father broke the awkward moment, asking, "Why are you wearing sunglasses?"

"Aude sapere," Sands muttered before smiling grimly. "And they call me blind."

* * *

Latin Translations

Aude sapere – Dare to know.


End file.
